Dark is Right
by buttercups3
Summary: Dual timeline: In the present Monroe Republic rulers Miles and Bass complicate diplomatic affairs with Georgia and Texas, while Miles tries his hand as a faux father to Alec. In the past Marines Miles and Bass experience their first tour in Iraq, while Miles navigates his broken engagement to Emma and his problematic relationship with his father.
1. Chapter 1

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

_A/N: This is a dual time-line story. The present explores Monroe Republic co-leaders Bass and Miles as they attempt to navigate a sticky diplomatic situation with Georgia Federation and Texas. Miles also tries his hand at faux fatherhood. The past explores Bass's and Miles's first tour as Marines in Iraq. Miles deals with the aftermath of his broken engagement to Emma and his problematic relationship with his own father. The story employs multiple perspectives, and spoilers are for all episodes up through "Home." Rated T for language and some sexuality, and there is some chance that a chapter or two might cross over into light M territory, but I will warn if/when that happens. Main characters include Miles, Bass, Ben, Pop Matheson, Alec, Kelly Foster, and Nora._

_Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from these characters; I'm just here to play! To NBC goeth the spoils._

* * *

"How do you know you aren't going to fuck up Alec like your old man did to you?" Bass asks Miles, a puckish grin flitting across lips framed by three-day old stubble.

Bass may be smiling, but the words are harsher than he's planned. The subject of Alec inexplicably irks him. He won't tell Miles this though, because what would that prove? That Bass is jealous of his best friend's protégé? It's absurd, but part of Bass likes being the only real family Miles has, even if Bass knows it's not the technical truth. When it comes to Bass, anyway you cut it, he's alone in the world except his best friend. All those who share Monroe blood are in the ground.

The two friends are sitting in Shaker rocking chairs on the back porch of Jim Hudson's house watching the desultory sun meander toward the blackening skyline, ice tinkling in their scotches. Jim has had to go back to Independence Hall to ready provisions for Miles's upcoming mission, but he has given Miles and Bass permission to drain this bottle and pass out in his living room if it comes to that.

"Pop didn't screw me up _so_ badly…" Miles mumbles into his glass, the rising pitch of the last syllable tacking on an unspoken, 'did he?' Yes, Miles wants reassurance, because Bass has perceptively uncovered Miles's deepest fear: that even if he successfully teaches Alec all his best traits as a soldier and as a man that it will still be a mistake, because nothing about Miles is actually worth passing on.

Bass runs a hand through his curls, startling them into opposing directions, and takes a sip. He senses Miles's insecurity and backs off. "I'm messin' with you, man. Alec could do worse. Speaking of, will you be taking him with you to Georgia Federation?"

"I think so, yeah. Alec, a small guard, and Nora, too."

"Ah, the girlfriend," Bass smirks.

The comment rubs Miles the wrong way, and he frowns, taking an overly ambitious gulp of scotch and spilling some squarely onto his crotch. "Need her bombing skills," Miles explains grumpily.

Bass's eyebrows have met in a knot, and instead of making his usual snide comment about Nora's other desirable skills, he says seriously, "I know President Foster asked specifically for you, but I wish you'd just send someone else."

"Jealous?"

Bass shakes his head. "What if Kelly locks you up, throws away the key, and I have to spring your ass out? I hate Georgia this time of year – the fucking humidity. Reminds me of Parris Island, and all those summers we spent training recruits. We'd sweat actual puddles into our boots, remember? Goddamn. It's been years, and I've smelled enough decaying and charred flesh to know what I'm talking about when I say there is nothing ranker on God's green earth than your boots in a Deep Southern summer."

Miles cackles drily. "Don't worry about Georgia. I'll take care of it and Kelly."

Bass continues, "But we've killed, what now, ten of Foster's soldiers crossing our border in the last two weeks? Pissing off Kelly is like tickling the hindquarters of a donkey. You're gonna get kicked."

"You have a lot of experience with a donkey's ass, Bass?" Miles is trying to wipe off his sodden lap with a napkin. "The soldiers were trespassing. What does she expect I'd do with them?"

Bass watches Miles digging at his balls with the napkin for a while before sighing, "When you're done playing with yourself, are you going to tell me how Nora Clayton fits into all this? You gonna blow up Kelly now? I mean, I wouldn't mind, but I'd be kind of sorry to miss the look on her face."

Miles cocks his head, imagining that for a moment in vague amusement. "We need intel badly. I don't know what Foster's playing at, letting her troops cross over our border at night. Does she need something we have? Is she trying to provoke a war? Is it just reconnaissance? Beats the hell out of me. While I'm down there for this little diplomatic mission, I'll take the opportunity to have a look at her orders and see what she's got up her sleeve. The plan is to have Nora plant a bomb in my room in the capital building – make it look like an assassination attempt on me. Kelly won't be able to fault us if it's _her_ security problem. Maybe she'll even owe us for exposing me to such terrible danger. In any case, it'll clear the capital building for a few hours. As long as she doesn't find out that I'm still in the building, rifling through her papers, it'll be fine."

"As long as you don't actually _get_ assassinated, it'll be fine," Bass corrects with a touch of weariness. After all, it was only a few weeks ago that Miles, Bass, and Nora had sat on this very porch discussing the Rebel bomb Nora had managed to discover and disarm outside of Miles's tent on his most recent counterinsurgency campaign.

_Nora had complained, "Miles, you're an idiot. Send someone else into the field for a while, or you'll get yourself blown up. I'm so sick of worrying about you, I'll kill you myself for some relief."_

_"I know it would put __me__ out of my misery if you'd just kill him," Bass had agreed with an earnest look on his face. Miles had shoved him, eliciting a full smile from his best friend._

"Oh don't worry. Nora only _says_ she wants to kill me," Miles says wryly to his hands, mulling over the same conversation as Bass. "I don't think she'd actually do it."

Bass watches Miles so intensely for a moment that Miles finally turns to look him in the eye.

What? Miles's arched eyebrow asks.

"You shouldn't go into Georgia with only a small guard. It puts too much power in Kelly's hands. I want to stage a simultaneous sea approach. Bottle up her ships in Savannah for leverage at the negotiating table. It'll send her a clear signal that we won't be pushed around. She may have more resources than we do, but we're cleverer at making war. We should remind her of that."

Miles scratches his beard and makes a note to shave before he sees Kelly...although part of him likes confirming Kelly's impression of him as a total boor. He responds to Bass after a thoughtful moment, "Yeah, ok. I've been thinking something similar."

"Ok?" Bass is surprised that Miles isn't objecting, especially to the idea of them both being outside the bounds of the Monroe Republic at the same time.

"I agree that it will send her a message. Also with the increased number of Rebel attempts on our lives lately, it might be good for us both to take a little vacation down South for a bit. We'll leave Jeremy to watch the children." Miles and Bass often refer to their subjects as children. They have the same love-hate relationship with them as any parents do with their toddlers. "Just wait to make a move on the port until you've heard from me. I want to get my hands on information before we try to intimidate Foster. Until then, keep the ships as close as you can without attracting attention. In fact, it might make sense to have Nora plant a diversion at Savannah as well – take the attention off the water for you."

Bass nods and swats at a mosquito. He squishes it against his neck and examines his finger: a crimson stain. It's always a shock to see your own blood even in such a minute quantity.

"I gave Alec my dad's knife," Miles says suddenly.

And they're back to Alec, Bass thinks. But he'll humor Miles. They're both starting to get drunk anyway. Bass's forehead feels numb, and Miles is swimming up and down in his vision. "Ah. The lucky knife." Bass pauses for effect. "You come back alive but irreparably mind-fucked by war: the Matheson family heirloom." He spreads his arms in dramatic fashion, partially to prove to himself that he is not disembodied and indeed does have control over his extremities.

"Is there any other way to come back from war?" Miles rocks violently in the chair like a hyperactive schoolboy, and Bass reaches out to still it with his index finger, because the sight is making him sick.

"Let's see," Bass ponders. "If Alec is as lucky as your grandfather, he'll come back a silent, bitter alcoholic. If he's as lucky as your dad, he'll come home with a hole in his side, the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the greater Chicago area. And if he comes home like you: decorated for your own two holes and a grim-ass stint as a prisoner of war, then he'll be as much of a drunk as your grandfather _and_ as mean as your old man. Because that's Miles Matheson: the best of both worlds."

Miles notes that Bass's voice softens ever so briefly as he mentions Miles's internment in Afghanistan. Miles is semi-convinced those four months when he was held by the Taliban were as hard on Bass as they were on him. He's never asked, but he knows Bass and the Marines in their unit made seven failed attempts to rescue Miles before he was recovered. He doesn't know what he looked like when Bass scraped him off the dirt floor, but he knows what he smelled like (crusty feces) and how he felt (like human pulp).

"I'm not a drunk," Miles objects gruffly, but then he hiccups, and they both laugh. Miles is, in fact, wasted right now and would be very happy to drink himself into the ground. The only thing that keeps him from doing so is the responsibility he feels toward his men.

Bass pours Miles another drink before commenting, "I can't say it's a comfort to me to know you gave up that stupid knife right before this particular mission. Bad omen."

"I'll be fine, Bass. Don't be a superstitious fool. You're supposed to be my smarter half."

"Well…your handsomer half at least," Bass rejoins with an air of triumph.

Miles flicks the napkin at him, but it doesn't make it the entire distance between the two chairs, instead parachuting gently into a red puddle on the concrete. They both watch it, and then look abruptly away.

They rock in unison, killing the rest of the bottle in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

_**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**_

_The language in here might offend, and Miles gets saucy with himself (undescribed), so this chapter warrants a hard T, maybe even a mild M._

* * *

**The Past**

Just another day in paradise, Miles thinks from his tent as he hesitantly cracks open an eye…or rather, just another shit day in Iraq, with nothing to do but sit with your rifle in your lap, the oppressive smell of CLP (Cleaner Lubricant and Preservative) crammed up your weary nostrils – nostrils that are already over-sensitized by the desert's gnawing sand – methodically cleaning the weapon that never gets used. But Marines try to keep their spirits up by recasting this turd of a country as 'paradise' and re-imagining the tedious intimacy with their guns as a kind of probing of a woman's sex – learning what she likes, so she'll purr for you when you need her to. At other times the rifle is also your dick; it can be magnificently dual-gendered like that. Everything to everyone. All thoughts eventually turn to screwing out here anyway, because the Marines are mostly a bunch of boys, barely out of adolescence, and, of course, bored as hell. This is Miles's and Bass's first turn in Iraq, as is the case for the majority of their unit. They're just six months clear of basic training, and because they're Marines, they're some of the first into the fray.

Miles shifts his left hip, numb from lying on a mattress of sand and comes face to face with Bass's putrid socks. He wants to shove away the offending feet, but his arms are heavy and his mouth as dry as the time he tried to impress his friends by swallowing a spoonful of cinnamon without water. Miles feels ancient and rickety. He's not old enough for his brain's frontal lobe to be fully developed, but he's old enough to be a trained killer and to have proposed to and been dumped by his high school sweetheart, Emma.

Emma. Miles instantly wishes he were alone so he could jerk off, thinking about the way her long, auburn hair smells like fresh laundry. He can almost transport himself back to the small town outside of Chicago where they grew up and their first awkward fumbling when they were fifteen. He'd never seen a naked pussy in real life until he'd seen hers and was fascinated and maybe even a little repulsed, but drawn to it just the same. It wasn't what he'd expected, but he should have predicted – layered, complex, mysterious, like Emma herself. He never been more blindsided by anything in his life than when he had received her kiss-off letter at basic training. She even sent back the ring, which tinkled out of the envelope and onto the pavement. What was Miles supposed to do with a diamond at boot camp? He still keeps it in his pocket.

Miles hasn't had any letters since then, so Bass is always kind enough to read aloud the ones his little sisters, Angela and Cynthia, send him. Sometimes they write private things, like how Bass's parents are arguing again or how they have a crush on the same boy, but Bass still reads them to Miles. It doesn't seem fair to deprive each other of the few links they have to home. And the truth is, they have no secrets out here. In fact, Miles has his hand down his shorts right now and has given up caring about Bass's invasive proximity. That's being a Marine. It's complete disregard for privacy or even decency, or it's no relief ever.

"Miles, I can hear you jerking off," comes the voice.

Miles makes a quick decision to continue anyway. He's already close even though it's been under a minute.

"Seriously?" Bass has moved the feet, and he's semi-attempting to get to his knees and crawl out of their tent. He's less put off by the idea of Miles masturbating near him, since this would hardly be the first time, and more disconcerted by the idea that Miles is probably thinking about Emma again. Miles has no idea – can never know – that Bass has fucked Emma. Oh, it's cold - colder than anything Bass could have imagined himself doing to his best friend in the world, but he banged Emma just a few feet away from an unconsciously drunk Miles in Emma's parents' house shortly after they'd enlisted in the Marines. Bass wasn't surprised when Emma broke it off with Miles while they were at boot camp several months later. But Bass _was_ surprised that she hadn't returned any of his secret letters.

Miles is suddenly done and sighs. "Don't bother," he replies gruffly to Bass, who is still feigning an escape. Miles has had his eyes squeezed shut but opens them again.

"Christ," Bass complains, giving up his attempt to relocate and tossing his shirt over his face. "You're disgusting."

Miles agrees with this, but he's not going to admit it out loud. He knows they probably have another excruciatingly dull day ahead of them, and he needed this. Miles and Bass barely talk anymore on guard duty, because they have nothing new to share. They spend every single moment together, and nothing ever happens to them. Maybe Miles doesn't want to admit it, but their intimacy far surpasses anything he'd ever experienced with Emma; he should marry Bass. Miles snorts at this thought. Is he even real without his best friend anymore?

"What's funny?" Bass grumbles, as the two put on their fatigues and boots and emerge from the tent, bleary eyed. But Miles just shrugs. His current line of reasoning is too stupid to share.

The first thing they notice is a dust storm seems to be brewing, which will surely equate to hours of misery. They immediately extract their goggles from their pockets and gamely don them even though they look stupid. Nothing is worse than sand in the eyes. Next thing they notice is their LT, Rupert Johnson, sitting on an ammo box, smoking a cigarette and watching the ugly, flesh-colored sand waver in the wind.

"Private," Johnson nods. It's Johnson's favorite joke to refer to the pair as a unit.

"Sir," Bass and Miles mumble in unison, as if they are indeed one.

"Guess what?' Johnson says, his ebony, pockmarked cheeks widening into a grin. "We've actually got something going today. We're heading toward Nasiriyah. We're bound to see some action." His face falls serious. "A convoy got ambushed and had to be lifted out with Cobras. We leave in 30 minutes."

Miles and Bass both tense up, interested, but they don't want to give up their cards. Best to shrug apparent indifference, which they both do, and head toward the latrines, before anyone notices the adrenaline and fear that has charged their veins.

By the time they are pissing side-by-side, Bass can't seem to help himself. "Real action, huh?"

"Yeah," Miles answers, and he knows they're both thinking: Maybe we'll shoot and be shot at. Maybe we'll be real Marines.

Maybe they'll even die, Miles thinks, suddenly fantasizing about lying in a casket, Emma crying over his stiff body. Then he is fantasizing about her crawling into the coffin with him and pressing her body into his. Unbelievable that he's already on Emma and sex again; he's so bored with himself he could die. Emma won't be warming his lips again, dead or alive. She is done with him. She's made it abundantly clear. Miles zips his fly so decisively he almost catches skin and feels momentary panic.

* * *

They're in Nasiriyah before they've really had time to contemplate it, and the scene isn't at all how they pictured combat. There's an RPG-tank duel going on in the distance, and for a moment Miles and Bass aren't exactly sure what to do with themselves. They're ordered to hit the deck in a depression by the side of a road that heads into the heart of the city, and they're glad to at least be flat on their stomachs. They lie there, hearts pounding, and exchange a look that says, _Now what_? They both wish they were bored again on guard duty, because suddenly they're going to be called to do something, and they'll either do it right or they won't and maybe they'll die either way. They're still a good distance from the action, but they are called to open fire. It's odd because they have already begun firing before their brains even registered the order.

Bass thinks, _I'm a Marine. Yeah, fuckers. Take that_, as he aims at the distant enemy.

Miles thinks, _Fire, fire, fire._

Both of them hope they haven't pissed themselves, because from the neck down they feel nothing. They are only what they've trained to be. They are one with each other, with their unit, with the sand. That's how it begins, anyway. But that is not how it ends.

Eventually they advance into the heart of the action, and their confidence dissolves. It's running gun battle after battle. Marines from their own unit begin falling. Jacob Reyes – a happy-go-lucky young private - gets shot in the face and half of it is just gone. He dies right there. A bulldog of a Marine they call Pigeon gets his legs shot up; he's told he'll lose them. Five others become casualties that day. By some miracle, Bass and Miles stumble away scot-free and are whisked away to safety in the back of a truck.

In history, when you read about battles, you always know exactly when they begin and end. Living them, you have no idea if you'll return to the action in a few hours or if the battle is actually over. The truck stops, and the Marines are told to set up camp and eat, but none of them have the stomach. Instead they scatter like confused chicks, each one migrating in a separate direction to take private stock of his sanity.

When Bass finally gets alone behind one of the trucks, he cries like a whipped puppy. His sobbing and shaking is so intense, he may break apart. To his utter mortification, he suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder. It's Miles.

Miles puts his arm around Bass, and now Bass is embarrassed for both of them – him weeping and Miles holding him. They're supposed to be Goddamn Marines, not schoolgirls. _Miles isn't crying_, Bass thinks, although even when Miles does cry it can be hard to tell, because no tears fall. But Miles is now close enough that Bass smells vomit on his breath. It's this smell – this evidence that Miles is as fragile as Bass is – that makes Bass finally put his arms around Miles and hug him back.

Gone now is the attempt at manliness, but also gone is the shame. They feel numb gratitude at being alive and grip each other as tangible proof of this achievement. Miles sniffs now, the closest he'll come to making a scene, and after a minute they pull apart. Bass's blue eyes meet Miles's bottomless browns. Both of them feel the urge to say something to commemorate their first real combat, but what does one say after a thing like that? _Our friends are dead or maimed for life. Thank God it's not us._

Bass has lost his voice from crying anyway.

Miles's bottom lip trembles but he finally does manage: "Fuck. I didn't think I'd be that scared."

They burst out laughing. It's the truest thing Miles has ever said. The laughing helps the shock pass. It's replaced by euphoria unlike anything they've ever experienced before.


	3. Chapter 3

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

_A/N: Readers – thank you so much for the follows and reviews! RL is super busy, but knowing there are people waiting on the story moves it up the to-do list, it really does. A note on the story structure – I haven't entirely decided if each chapter will switch back and forth between present and past because the present storyline is more complex and might need additional chapters, but I will always signal when we are in the past with a bold __**The Past**__. Otherwise we'll be in the present storyline, as we are in this chapter!_

* * *

Miles hasn't actually asked Nora to accompany him on the Georgia mission yet (despite his conversation with Bass last night), so he's summoned her to his office this afternoon. It's a little arrogant to assume that Nora will drop everything to tag along, but Miles doesn't think about it that way. Maybe he thinks, _This is for the good of the Republic – of course, she'll come_. Or maybe he just thinks she'll agree because he's asking. In any case, he doesn't consciously entertain any other outcome besides her complete acquiescence to his plan. He's the general, and this is his world.

Currently, Miles is writing orders for Jeremy to prepare for the departure of the Republic's two top-ranking officials. Miles and Bass will most likely be gone several months, given the distance to Georgia. He's nervous thinking about how much could happen to the Republic in that span of time and makes a mental note to talk to Jim about what to do in case of attacks from foreign invaders or serious internal conflict. The key is to make sure no one except the inner circle knows that Miles and Bass are gone. Even those militiamen who travel with Miles should believe that Bass is home in Philly, while the sailors with Bass should believe Miles is. The only people privy to the vulnerability of the Republic will be Jeremy, Jim, and Alec.

"Sir? Nora Clayton here to see you," announces an aide.

"Send her in," Miles replies without looking up.

Miles senses her presence before he raises his eyes to take in her small, muscular frame. Nora's hair is never down except when they're making love, and today she has her black curls wrangled into a tight bun, though a few tendrils have escaped. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's wearing a tank top. It must be hot out, though Miles hasn't been outside today. He's been too engrossed in paperwork. Miles hates the interminable desk duty that crowds his days – it's something he wasn't prepared for when he ascended from Marine sergeant to the highest military rank in the land.

"Nora," Miles says by way of greeting.

"Miles," she answers.

He hasn't seen her in weeks and didn't realize how much he has missed her until this moment. He finds he is grinning broadly, while her face is sporting a 'get to the point, I've got better things to do,' look.

"It's good to see you again," Miles can't help but say. He stands and asks with his hands if she'd like a drink, but she shakes her head. He continues, "A small convoy and I are heading down to Atlanta for a couple of months. I'd like you to come along."

Miles has asked Nora countless times to work full time for the Monroe Militia, but she refuses. She is an independent agent and a coveted one in and out of the capital city. Shady characters hire her to blow up rivals, ruffle the feathers of competing drug lords, and steal mounds of treasure. In order to get Nora to work for him, Miles has to pay her better than anyone else and not in pillow time, despite their romantic entanglement. In gold and jewels. He's got a big bag of gold in his desk right now with her name on it.

Nora is scrutinizing Miles with a somber expression. "When do you leave?" she asks.

Nora is more interested in this job then she's letting on. It's been ages since she's been through Georgia – not since she made the long journey with Mia from Texas to the Monroe Republic all those years ago when they were searching for a new life. She's heard stories about Georgia that seem almost fanciful with their descriptions of steam-engine-propelled buses, elegant silk clothing, and real representative democracy. She has to admit she's intrigued to see it with her own eyes. And she won't say this to Miles, but she misses him too and wouldn't mind spending more time with him. Miles has recently cut his hair and shaved and looks extremely handsome in the orange glow of afternoon. She has a brief fantasy about shoving him backwards onto his desk and having her way with him that makes a smile flit across her lips.

Miles isn't pouring himself a drink either, which Nora takes as a sign that he's serious about this mission. In fact, she can tell by the tension in his shoulders that he's under a great deal of stress. Her smile fades.

Miles answers her question: "Tomorrow night."

Nora shakes her head. "I can't. I have a job."

"Cancel it. Whatever they're paying, I'll pay you tenfold," Miles says, cocking his head.

"It's not about the money. My guy won't like being canceled on."

"Well," Miles ponders this. "Do you want me to have him killed?"

Nora folds her arms and narrows her eyes. It's hard to laugh when Miles says a thing like that. He could and would do it, probably without another thought. "No thanks. What do you want me to do on this mission, anyway?"

"The usual. I need your bombing expertise."

"I figured. I mean _specifically_."

"Can't tell you that yet."

"What, don't trust me?" Nora says rather crossly.

"Just not sure exactly how things will play out yet. Better to tell you as the story unfolds."

"So let me get this straight: you want me to nix a current engagement with a dangerous drug lord to go skipping off to Georgia Federation with you to do a job you're not even sure of?"

Miles's brown eyes are doing that thing they only seem to do for her: softening. He moves toward her and puts his hands on her arms, which remain folded in a hostile fashion. It's early enough in their relationship that she still feels an instant jolt of electricity at his touch. He's smiling again.

"That's right," he says.

Nora admits to what is perhaps her greatest reservation: "You'll be a sitting duck, riding down all that way. Do you _want_ to get assassinated? I mean, putting aside the Georgians, who would like you dead, one of our own discontents would be thrilled to take a clean shot at your smirking mug."

"That's why we're leaving at night."

"Right," she scoffs. "Only it will take two weeks to ride to Atlanta, smart ass."

"Trust me, I wouldn't be going if I had a choice. I'm more worried about what could happen to the Republic in my absence than what Kelly Foster has in store for me in Georgia."

Nora presses, "_Why_ don't you have a choice? Aren't you in charge here? Don't you have _all_ the choices?" Nora finally lets the pressure from Miles's hands on her arms cause them to drop out of their tight hold. She's genuinely worried about his safety.

"I've got to go because President Foster has asked me. Her soldiers have been showing up across our lines, and we've been shooting them. We're coming awfully close to the brink of war, and frankly, I'd rather hear Kelly out before it comes to that. War with Georgia would be very bad for us. We have our own internal rebellion to deal with, not to mention a growing resource problem. Kelly knows it. Hell, everyone does. She's preying on our weakness."

"What will you do if she _is_ threatening the Republic?"

Miles lets his hands drop to his sides. "Nora, I'm not prepared to discuss that with you right now. But at least consider: This diplomatic mission is the most important thing for the Republic right now. We need you. Come with us."

"Well you don't have to beg," Nora allows herself another small smile. "I was going to come. You had me at 'bombing expertise.' I like a good old-fashioned compliment as much as the next girl…But I still don't see where my bombs fit into a diplomatic mission where war is on the line."

Miles is pleased that he has Nora on board and abruptly pulls her waist with both hands, jerking her body in between his legs. Her body makes a smacking sound against his lean muscles. He runs his calloused fingers through the escaped strands of her hair.

Nora says, "I gotta go deal with my drug lord, General. You can't have everything you want today," and digs her hip sideways into the only part of Miles's body that does give, making him grunt. On the way to his crotch, her hipbone has glanced the scar tissue in his upper thigh – his first battle wound. All these twenty plus years later, it has never stopped being sensitive, like it is determined to remind him of losing his innocence.

Miles lets her go but says to her back as she is leaving, "Nora…come back tonight when you're done?"

She doesn't turn around but smiles at the blatant request for a booty call; however, it's not the eagerness in Miles's voice that brings her to his bedroom later that night. It's her own desire. Hell, a woman's got needs. Miles can be a bit of a sulky bastard, but he's good in bed. He's also the most powerful person in the Republic, and even though she may be falling for him (and her feelings for him may already be beyond her control), he's also useful. For instance, right now she has an angry smear of blue bruise spreading across her cheek from the drug lord's fist, but she was able to pacify the asshole (and slit his neck just a little) with the threat that if he didn't let her put off his job, General Matheson would personally kill him.

It's now very late at night, but Nora can tell there's still candlelight in Miles's room from under the gap in the door. Miles's orderly checks with the general and then admits her. Miles is sitting on the edge of his bed clad only in boxer shorts and waves her in.

She's confused as to what he's doing, primly sitting there with his bed perfectly made. He looks as though he's been in that place for hours – no maps, no battle plans, nothing in his hands to occupy him.

"You been waiting for me?" she asks.

Miles pulls her by the hand so that she is sitting astride his lap. He leans her face toward the flickering candle fire, and though she tries to pull out of his grasp, it's too late.

"That drug lord fucked with you?" Miles's eyebrows flatten as he studies her wounded face. "Now I really _will_ kill him."

"Oh, he made off worse than I did," Nora smiles. "I don't need the big bad general to protect me." She's back off him and stripping down to her underwear, a little annoyed but also pleased by his concern. She resumes her position in his lap because she liked it, not because he pulled her there.

Miles frowns.

"So why are you sitting here staring in the candlelight, Miles? It's a little creepy."

"I was thinking through the plans for Georgia. Looking at it from all angles. Trying to decide where the holes are. I do it before every campaign," Miles replies, scowling at the end.

Nora leans down to kiss Miles's frowning lips, which, just like any other human's, are soft and vulnerable. She likes looking at him from this angle, because when he closes his eyes in pleasure, it's hard to imagine his day job or hers for that matter.

Miles is trying very hard to connect with Nora. He really likes her. Admires her. Highly covets her martial skills. But he's had this problem with women ever since Emma: sex feels all too similar to hand-to-hand combat. Just like in a swordfight it's every man for himself, and he can't entirely predict what his partner will do despite the familiar dance. He's afraid of dropping his guard too much, but knows he has to open himself enough to experience gratification and to let Nora have hers. It's a delicate balance that is hard to navigate when sweaty, needy bodies are wrestling for dominance. He wonders if Nora feels the same way, or if he is the only one who struggles with this. He's only completely lost himself in one woman since Emma and that woman was undoubtedly a terrible mistake – one, unlike Emma, he's never recovered from.

* * *

Nora wakes up first and can tell it's later than she usually rises. Miles will want to get up - it's a big day. She looks at Miles, whose face is resting on one hand as he faces her in sleep. She runs her hand gently over his cheek, which has taken on some stubble in the night. He opens his eyes.

"Hey. We should get up. It's late," Nora informs gently. She glides her hand over his right bicep, tracing the familiar tattoo there and the words printed beneath it: Semper Fidelis.

Miles rubs his face and looks very tired. "Maybe we can just stay in bed this morning," he suggests, though he knows it's an impossibility. Every now and then he yearns for a normal life.

There's a knock at the door, and because Miles has told the orderlies not to disturb him, that means the person on the other side of the door is one of two people: Bass or Alec. Only they have complete access to Miles at all times, even naked in bed with his girlfriend.

Miles nods at Nora so she knows to cover up her breasts, and he barks, "Come!"

It's Alec. "Sorry to disturb, Miles," he begins, eying Nora.

Nora is always embarrassed to be caught in Miles's bed. It makes her feel somehow like a whore, though she doesn't think Miles sleeps with anyone else. She hasn't asked, because she doesn't want to sound solicitous.

"What is it, Alec?" Miles says curtly. He doesn't welcome the intrusion either, but he knows something must have happened.

"There was an attack early this morning on the officers' horses."

"The what? For Christ's sake. Rebels?"

"Looks like it."

"What are these people: savages? What did the horses ever do to them?" Miles's stomach drops momentarily. "Zeppelin?"

"She's fine, Miles."

Miles is relieved. He loves his mare almost as much as he loves his own hand or foot.

Miles has lofted himself out of bed, exposing his bare ass as he bends over to put on his shorts, followed by his uniform. Nora gives his butt a sad, parting glance. She might get to accompany Miles to Atlanta, but she doubts there will be time for sex.

Fully dressed and quickly combing his hair into place, Miles turns back to Nora, who is still sitting in bed with the covers pulled up over her chest. He is very sorry to leave her.

"I'll have an orderly send in breakfast for you, Nora," he says. "Come find me at 13:00, and we'll outfit you for the trip." He wants to kiss her again, but not in front of Alec, so he follows his captain out the door and closes it gently behind him.

Nora feels dreadfully alone now, and the shame has not yet subsided. _This is what it is being the bed warmer of the general_, she thinks, because she's feeling a bit sorry for herself. He's always got something more important to do than to be with you. Nora is not clingy; hell, if she found out Miles was sleeping with other people she wouldn't be angry. Jealous? Sure. But angry: no. They haven't made a commitment to each other, and so she can't expect anything. But last night, something different happened that plunged her into this current emotionally erratic state. For just a moment, Miles had been vulnerable, far more so than ever before. He'd seemed almost embarrassed after. Then, just now when Miles was leaving with Alec, he'd given Nora a look that she couldn't entirely read.

Nora has a theory: Miles is opening himself up more to Alec and that's in turn releasing some locked down emotions that Miles has buried under the years. Nora knows nothing about Miles's life before the blackout except that he and and Monroe have a long history together and were in the Marines. She decides to make it a little side quest on this trek to Georgia to find out more about what makes this strange, complicated, and broken man tick.

Of course, what Nora doesn't realize is that she's also felt a change in Miles because for the first time in a long time - nearly a lifetime - Miles is trying. For her.


	4. Chapter 4

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

_A/N: I'll keep it in the present this round to get these ruffians off on their adventure, and then next chapter I'll pick up with our boys in Iraq and introduce you to Pop Matheson. Sound good? Word!_

* * *

Miles fondly observes Alec as they walk to the stables. The kid looks very stately in his uniform. Admittedly Alec is not really a kid – he's in his mid-twenties and more mature than Miles ever was at that age. But, in a way, he's Miles's kid. Miles ponders Alec constantly, like when Miles is studying a map, he'll think: _Remember to tell Alec to look out for flanking opportunities when he's been consigned to the low ground in battle_. And when Miles is reviewing the new recruits at training, he'll think: _Tell Alec you earn real trust from your officers when you position them, give them a goal, and let them achieve the objective in their own way._ Miles believes that these pieces of wisdom are the sum of his own worth. Part of him envisions Alec replacing him one day. Alec could be heir to the kingdom.

Paradoxically, Alec's the kind of person with whom Miles would never have interacted before the blackout. It's not because Alec's black, though, admittedly, Miles's hometown was far from diverse. Miles' father was very prejudiced against African Americans, as he was against most people who didn't look or act like him, but as soon as Miles went to war he realized racism was a crock of shit. His black LT (one of his favorite people in the world) saved his white ass loads of times and served as a brilliant example of martial leadership that Miles still models himself after to this day.

No – Miles and Alec wouldn't have interacted before the blackout, because, frankly, Alec wouldn't have found Miles very cool or worth knowing. Before he was general, Miles spent much of his time aloof and silent, unable to figure out how to interact with fellow humans, often feeling too stupid to interject even in conversations he cared about. War made it worse – he came home feeling contempt for civilians who expected him to act and be a certain way, when those things no longer made any sense. At least after the apocalypse, Miles's skill set became coveted, useful. People began asking him questions he could answer, like: How do you shoot a rifle? How do you stage an ambush? Yes, in all honestly, Miles used to be an underachiever. He had trouble passing high school: reading gave him a headache, and he strained to do arithmetic that progressed beyond his fingers. Miles's complete lack of scholastic ability was especially jarring in contrast to his brilliant, book-smart brother. But after the blackout, Miles was reborn a genius, and now many people, Alec included, want to be like him.

_Except Bass_, Miles thinks. Though Miles trusts Bass more than anyone in the world, he also sometimes worries that his best friend will accidentally expose the real Miles – the fumbling, uncool Miles – and Alec will reject him.

"You've been spending a lot of time with her," Alec suddenly says, wrenching Miles out of this substantial mental digression. They've made it to the stables, and Alec halts them before entering.

"Who, Nora?" Miles asks. "This is the first time I've seen her in weeks."

That's not what Alec means. What Alec wants to convey without pushing Miles's buttons is that he isn't seeing anyone _but _Nora. Alec knows very little about Nora except that she's exceptionally talented with explosives and refuses all of Miles's requests to serve in the Militia. Nora is an independent agent and a liability. For all they know, she contracts for the Rebels as often she does for the Militia. If Miles has truly fallen for her, she could take down Militia leadership from the inside, and the general wouldn't even notice until it was too late.

Alec recognizes that a direct approach on this topic would be inadvisable. When Miles gets angry, he shuts down and sulks. Alec wants Miles to really think about the possibility that Nora could be dangerous. Plus, selfishly, he has no desire to ride for two weeks with a dour companion. Alec loves Miles, probably more than he ever did his own absent father, but Miles can be a self-pitying bastard with a bottomless capacity for despair. He's also a bit of a drunk.

Alec smiles, because in spite of all these flaws, he truly wants the best for Miles. There's something about the old man – you can't help but root for him.

"You love her, Miles?" Alec tries. It's somehow direct and oblique at the same time.

"What?" Miles asks grumpily, adjusting his belt.

"You heard me."

"I don't know, Alec. What does it matter to you?" Miles snaps. A hand grips his shoulder.

It's Bass. Bass is grinning from ear to ear, his golden curls shining in the sun.

"General," Bass prompts: an inside joke. In the Marines, they used to greet each other as 'Sergeant.' 'Sergeant.' Now it's 'General.' It's definitely not funny to anyone but them; Alec is scowling and shaking his head.

"General," Miles responds, allowing himself to be extracted from a growing funk.

Bass keeps his hand on Miles's shoulder, digging in slightly to release a knot his finger finds there. The pressure forces Miles to relax.

"You look awfully moody for such a beautiful day, Miles. Girl trouble?" Bass inquires.

"What?" Miles objects, instant bitterness returning.

Bass pushes Miles through the stable gates, gently but with intention. "Well, I overheard you two as I was walking up. Miles, why do you always insist on giving your heart to just one girl?"

Alec chimes in, "I was just going to try to warn him off the same thing. Especially _this_ girl."

Bass regards Alec briefly and continues to Miles, "You can be so medieval, brother. Get with the modern times. You can have any girl you want. I've got two words for you: joy fucking."

"Joy fucking?" Miles complains.

"Yeah, it's like joy riding, except with sex. You know it's actually more biologically normal to sleep around than to commit. Think about it. Every girl you've ever loved has completely shattered your heart. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

Bass often says things like this to Miles. The problem is Bass is every bit as much of a romantic as Miles is – more so, even. In fact, every woman Miles has ever really loved, namely Emma (his former fiancée) and Rachel (his brother's wife), Bass has loved too. This is Bass's giant, reeking skeleton in the closet. As far as Bass can tell, Miles has no idea that his best friend can't seem to develop enough of his own identity to fall in love with separate women. Bass hates feeling weak and derivative of Miles, but the heart wants what the heart wants. So Bass frequently berates Miles for being a serial monogamist, when, in fact, Bass outdoes Miles by a long shot on that front…only secretly. In practice, Bass sleeps around, but his heart stays chained to the pale ghosts of his past.

Is Nora next? Will Bass find himself banging her outside of this barn before the year is out? Or will he wait five desperate years before he steals her, like he did with Emma? To his relief, at this moment he feels nothing for the brown-skinned bomber. Maybe Bass should just fuck Miles and get it over with. Bass suppresses hysterical laughter at this thought. If that would fix this peculiar disease then maybe he'd consider it.

"Something funny?" Miles asks him.

Bass briefly imagines telling Miles, _Yeah I was thinking about fucking you so that I could stop coveting your women_, which only makes him laugh out loud.

"_What_ is funny?" Miles is irritated.

"Oh, your mopey-ass face," Bass explains. "I'll miss it though," he says mock melancholically. Then he grows serious. "My people are all ready to depart for the high seas, Miles. I'll see you when you send for me in Georgia. In the meantime, if something happens and I need to strike first, I'll let you know with a courier."

Miles nods.

"Take care of yourself, buddy." Bass throws an arm around his best friend and gives him a squeeze. "I really will miss your scowl. It gets me up in the morning," he says studying Miles's face closely with deep affection.

"Weren't you leaving, pisspants?" Miles complains, but he's holding onto Bass just the same. They jest, but they both feel sentimental at partings. In the Marines, they always served side by side, and their separate responsibilities as leaders of the Monroe Republic have taken some getting used to.

In a moment, Bass is gone.

"Shit, it's getting late," Miles says to Alec, hearing the toll from the bell tower. "Can you meet Nora at 13:00 and make sure she gets what she needs?"

"Of course."

Nora is disappointed that it's Alec and not Miles who greets her and leads her to the armory. She knows the officers, especially Alec, are suspicious of her. Hell, she can't entirely blame them. She's the one with Miles's dick in her mouth, and anyway you cut it that means he's more vulnerable to her than to anyone else. Miles is good at his job, maybe even brilliant, but that doesn't mean he hasn't got weaknesses. He plays favorites with those he cares for, and it creates some rivalries among the cadre. Miles's chief artillerist, for instance, gives Nora the death stare every time he sees her, because he knows Miles would replace him with Nora in a minute if she'd agree to it.

Alec opens the double doors on a cornucopia of ordnance. "What do you need for your bombs?"

Nora's instantly enamored of the glistening weaponry and supplies. She's like an art connoisseur at a van Gogh showing. Alec watches her with alert interest as she begins to fill a cart.

"So," he starts. "Did you take this job because he asked or did you take it for the money?"

"Can't it be both?" Nora returns over a shoulder, still focusing on her selections.

"Not the way I see it. You're either loyal to him, or you're not. If you're not, I'd be very careful."

Nora turns to face Alec, her hands on her hips. "Threatening me, captain?"

"Just reminding you of the way things are. I'll give up whatever it takes to protect Miles."

Nora squints at Alec, trying to determine where exactly this is going. "I don't owe you an explanation of my relationship with Miles. But I can tell you're apprehensive, so let me put your mind at ease."

Alec suddenly feels as though he's being outmaneuvered. He instinctively puts his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Nora's eyes shift briefly to his hand. She lifts an eyebrow but continues, calculating how quickly she can get to her own sword if need be.

"You see, Alec, you and I are in very similar positions. We may love Miles, but we're always going to be second fiddle."

Alec smiles politely and forces himself to relax his trigger hand. "Second to who…to Bass?"

"No. To Miles's and Bass's love child."

Alec narrows his eyes in confusion.

"The Republic," Nora explains, turning away from Alec and back to the feast of firearms. She feels confident now that he won't draw on her.

Nora's older than Alec only by a few years, but at this moment she feels terribly wise. There, she's said it. She knows it's true. The question is: Is she ok with it?

Seven hours later, Miles, Nora, Alec, a five-man guard, and a fierce stockpile of explosives set off for the Georgia capital city. Elsewhere, Bass's ships glide out toward sea. The Republic, temporarily left to the care of fosters, sleeps.


	5. Chapter 5

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

_A/N: It's so, so lovely to get the reviews and follows, ya'll! Thanks immensely. Um, I tend to write stories quickly. ;)  
_

* * *

**The Past**

The Marines are headed toward Baghdad. This is exciting news, because it's the capital city of Iraq and promises danger. Ever since partaking in their first real combat, Bass and Miles can't wait to fire their weapons again. They want to prove to themselves and to each other that they won't be such chicken-shits this time around.

A side benefit of having faced down mortality is that the knot in Miles's chest that has been present since Emma dumped him is beginning to ease. Miles feels a new sense of importance - his world has widened beyond the people and experiences of home. He is starting to believe that he might be able to love someone else or that maybe the love of a woman doesn't matter so much after all. Maybe devotion to his comrades-in-arms is all he needs. Besides, there's a very real possibility he won't make it back to the States. He has seen how arbitrary battle is – who dies and who lives is a complete roll of the die.

Bass is experiencing a different set of Emma-related emotions. Ever since he faced down death, he is desperate to share his new-found virility with Emma - to convince her that he is worthy of her love. Bass can close his eyes and feel the creamy skin of her thighs as he slid his hands up her skirt on the kitchen counter of her parents' house. He can still smell the dainty floral of her soap. Damn, he'd felt something so deep with her; how could it be that she hadn't experienced the same? Maybe she had but is too ashamed to hurt Miles. Maybe she's a nicer person than Bass, because if Emma asked, Bass would be with her, Miles's feelings be damned. He resolves to write her a new letter.

The Marines have stopped for lunch and for mail. Bass always dreads mail time a little, because he feels for Miles. Every once in a while, Bass thinks about writing to Ben and saying, _Would it kill you to write your little brother a letter just once?_ Ben vociferously objected to Miles's enlistment after 9/11. Ben says the war is unjustified - an excuse to assert American colonialism abroad, or something to that effect. Ben told Miles if he went through with becoming a Marine that Ben couldn't support his decision. And this is what not supporting Miles looks like: eternal silence on the radio waves. It wouldn't be so bad if Miles's father weren't also a coward, who won't write his son because it reminds him of his own painful years in Vietnam.

And that's the state of the Mathesons. Miles's daily behavior can perplex or irritate Bass: Miles drinks too much; he's moody; at times he's dangerously impulsive and other times infuriatingly passive. But Bass chalks it all up to Miles's fucked up family. The Mathesons are like a puzzle that got ambushed by an angry two-year old. The pieces flew everywhere, and everyone is too angry to cooperate and put them back together, so they just sit there glowering in their own corners, reconstructing their own fragment, refusing to unify the picture again. Of course, it wasn't an irate toddler who messed up their lives - it was the death of Louise Matheson from breast cancer.

"Monroe!" Bass hears his name. As usual, he's got a couple letters from his sisters and a letter from his parents. To Bass's utter shock, he also hears: "Matheson!"

Miles physically jumps and reaches for his letter in a daze.

Bass leans invasively over Miles's shoulder, because he can't believe the name on the letter: Mark Matheson. It's from Miles's dad.

"Well, open it!" Bass encourages, even shoving Miles a little in zeal.

Miles nods. "Ok, ok." He's fumbling a bit with the papers.

Both Miles and his father have atrocious handwriting, almost as if they're compensating for a lack of communication skills by rendering their meager thoughts unintelligible. Bass can read Miles's writing from years of practice and so he can also make out Mark's. Because of this and the fact that Miles has trouble concentrating on reading anyway, Bass has already read the letter four times over Miles's shoulder by the time Miles looks back up at him.

_Dear Miles,_

_With you in the Marines and Ben in Chicago at graduate school, I've decided to do something I've been wanting to do for a long time: move to Florida. I'll have taken off by the time you get this. I can't wait anymore. I'll send along a new address when I have one. In the meantime, when you're home from war, you and Ben can go ahead and sell the house. You two keep the money. I don't want it. Just forward any paperwork to the new address._

_My best,_

_Pop_

Miles's mouth is hanging open. "I...I don't understand. Did he move without telling us?"

Bass puts his hand on Miles's shoulder. "Well, technically he did tell you...after the fact." Bass thinks, _Fuck, that's cold_.

Miles can't stop staring dumbstruck at Bass.

Bass says, "Well on the bright side, he's given you and Ben the honor of selling the house for him." It's a bad joke, but what else can you do but laugh at this? At least Mark's giving the boys the money.

Bass isn't sure what Miles is going to do, so he sort of leads him to a pile of sand to take a seat. Miles semi-collapses. Then he says earnestly: "What do _your_ letters say?"

The words slice at Bass's heart. The letters say, no doubt, that Bass has a family who loves him, misses him, and would give anything to see him again. They'd never pack up and abandon him while he was away at war.

"Let's save them for later when we're bored on the truck ride, ok?" Bass suggests.

Miles stares at him.

Bass feels the need to comfort his friend. "Hey, man – you've still got me. Whenever you come home you can stay with my family. That's a promise. My mom will insist. She loves you like a son."

Miles nods numbly. His brain drifts into the past as they climb on the truck bound for the Iraqi capital.

Miles is sixteen and his head is buried beneath the hood of his baby, his Challenger. Sure she's a little decrepit at the moment: she needs a paint job and probably a couple of months worth of work to get her running, but Miles has busted his ass working after school and summers to buy it off one of his dad's old Marine buddies. Miles is pretty sure Pop is actually proud of him for managing this. Miles can tell because his dad is out here working on the car with him, sifting through the toolbox in search of the socket wrench and cursing aloud every time his hand bumps up against the wrong tool.

"Hell, son. Didn't I tell you to organize this? A man's got to take pride in his toolbox. Yours is a piece of shit."

"Sorry, Pop," Miles mumbles, ducking down further. Miles vaguely wonders what Ben's up to inside. Ben's a senior and is usually studying for some AP exam or another. He's already gotten into University of Chicago, so Miles can't understand why he keeps taking these tests. It's far too gorgeous a day to waste in your room. The sun is powerfully bright, but there's a crackling, cold breeze to remind you that the Midwest has only just started to wrestle free of winter.

"How's school, Miles?" Pop asks crisply.

Miles hates when their bonding involves talking. Every subject is a minefield with Pop. "Fine," Miles answers.

"Who's that kid who I saw you talking to after your game last Saturday?"

"Peter Shapiro. He's just a bench warmer for the team."

"A Jew?"

Miles shrugs and tries to sink even lower behind the hood. This is exactly the kind of topic Miles wants to avoid.

"I didn't like the way he was talking to you," Pop says. "You shouldn't let other kids push you around."

Miles shrugs again. Peter had been taunting him a little. If Miles doesn't get his math grade up, he's going to be on academic probation, and Peter has his eye on Miles' position as a wide receiver. But Peter's a dick. Everyone knows that. Bass and Miles constantly talk shit about how he looks like he's got smallpox and is as skinny as a flagpole. They call him Peter and the Beanstalk – not very clever, but it makes them laugh. No one takes Peter very seriously.

"Miles. Answer my question."

Miles briefly panics. He hasn't heard his father ask him a question. His pulse increases, and he pokes his head out from behind the hood. "Sorry, sir, what? I couldn't hear."

Pop seems pacified by the politeness and repeats, "What are you going to do about it?"

Lately, every time Miles gets nervous he crosses his arms tightly across his chest and squeezes his own arms like a straightjacket.

"Um…nothing, he's just a dumb guy on the team, Pop. Don't worry about it."

"A dumb guy who wants your spot."

"Sure, but…I'm a way better player than he'll ever be. Coach won't bench me."

"If you get benched because of an F in Algebra, I'll be very disappointed in you. In the meantime, it's not wise to let people push you around. It's a slippery slope."

"Ok, Pop. Ok." Miles quickly goes back to work. The algebra grade is a source of constant concern for Miles, and he has no idea what Pop will do if he actually gets bumped from the team.

A few hours later Pop, Miles, and Ben are sitting down to soggy hamburgers. Miles always misses his mother most at mealtime. Though she died when he was just nine years old, he remembers her food as the most delicious stuff in the world. Pop is a terrible cook, and so are Ben and Miles, really. They basically alternate between three meals: soggy burgers with lettuce (cooked on the stovetop, not the good way on a grill), spaghetti with meat sauce and lettuce, and tacos in hard shells with lettuce. It's like lettuce is the only vegetable Pop has ever heard of. Even the sight of lettuce can make Miles want to gag, like right now. Miles is trying not to think about what it's going to taste like drenched in ground-beef sweat.

"Ben, would you lead us in saying grace," Pop states rather than asks.

"Pop, we've been over this. I'm an adult now. I don't believe in God, and I don't want to pray to something I don't believe in."

Pop makes a fist and Miles sees the white spread splotchy and threatening across the calloused fingers.

"While you're under my roof, you will respect the Lord."

"Miles doesn't believe either," Ben adds unnecessarily, and Miles shoots him a bitter glance. The brothers are rarely on the same team when it comes to Pop, which is a shame, because an alliance might temper Pop's power.

"The problem with you boys is you haven't been to war. Nothing like an invisible enemy taking potshots at you in the jungle while your own air force drops buckets of poison on your head to make you beg your Maker for mercy. Then you come home to a bunch of ungrateful…" Pop descends into muttering but stops himself.

Miles can tell Ben's not finished with his own unnecessary verbal manifesto, and Miles shrinks down in his seat as much as possible - a difficult thing for a teenager as tall and gangly as he is.

"Pop," Ben adds. _"You_ don't even believe in God. You just go through the motions because Mom was a Catholic."

Pop reaches across the table and slaps Ben, just once, with terrifying control. It makes a sound like a firecracker, and Ben does his best not to flinch, but it momentarily whips his face sideways.

"Watch your mouth." That is all Pop says. He must be tired. He's been worried lately that he'll lose his job as floor manager at the power plant.

Pop even proceeds to lead the prayer himself: "Bless us, o Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen."

Miles mumbles along with Pop and makes the sign of the cross, but Ben remains a conscientious objector. He's sitting with his arms folded, staring at his family like they're the enemy. Miles is pissed at Ben for dragging him into this, but after the prayer Miles just digs into his disgusting hamburger and keeps his mouth shut. Unlike Ben, getting slapped really upsets Miles, not because it hurts physically. Pop doesn't hit to wound. But it makes Miles's chest ache, he feels so rejected.

After dinner, Miles should do his math homework, but he can't face it – every time he sees those x's and y's they may him sick to his stomach – so he just goes to bed. Ben is already in bed. Miles hates sharing a room with his brother, but that'll only be for a few more months when Ben'll go to college and Miles can finally have some privacy.

Miles is always jealous of Bass for having sisters, because that means Bass gets his own room. Miles's girlfriend, Emma, also has her own room, and this comes in handy when he comes over after school and they 'study.' Miles still can't get used to the idea that he's actually having sex. It makes him feel like a grown up, but at the same time, he's always concerned he's not doing it right. He's too embarrassed to ask Bass about it, and lately he's been really nervous about getting Emma pregnant…mainly because Pop told him that if he knocks up Emma, Pop will kill him. Pop killed a lot of people in Vietnam. Miles isn't entirely convinced Pop doesn't have it in him to murder his own son, if he fucks up badly enough.

Miles eyes Ben in the darkness and sees that he's still awake. The anger from dinner returns.

"Thanks for telling Pop I don't believe in God, cocksucker," Miles snaps, violently stripping down to his boxers.

"You don't stand up to him, Miles. You've got to stand up to him, especially once I leave for college." Ben pauses. "And you _don't_ believe in God, do you?"

Miles shrugs. "Seems kinda hard to believe there's some old dude sitting in the clouds looking out for you."

"Well, kid, you don't have to believe in a god like _that_."

"Don't call me kid. I'm taller than you." Miles feels childish for bringing up the obvious. "I know God doesn't have to be like that, but I just – I dunno – have trouble imagining something else." Miles feels really dumb, like he always does around Ben. Even so, after a few minutes of silence he can't help but add: "I'd like to see Mom again, though."

Ben's voice softens; he aches for his little brother. Miles was so young when their mother died. "Yeah, me too, but I just can't believe in it - Heaven, I mean."

"Yeah," Miles says quietly. "Me neither." A vast emptiness grips his stomach at having admitted aloud that he'll never see his mother again.

"Miles, did you do the laundry?" Ben suddenly asks.

"Shit." Grief is replaced by cold panic.

"It was your turn," Ben hisses.

"I know." Miles is instantly jealous of everyone he knows who has a mother and doesn't have to do their own laundry. He's also worried, because if their dad doesn't have a clean shirt for tomorrow, there will be hell to pay.

"You'd better get up and do it. Don't get on his bad side," Ben warns.

Pop's bad side sometimes means a set of fifty or even one hundred push-ups; sometimes it's the slap on the cheek. But the worst thing, the incalculable thing, is what Pop says to you when you've disappointed him: how he can make you feel worthless, like you are the most insignificant speck of sand on the planet, and it wouldn't make one difference to him if he never saw you again.

"Did you even do your math homework tonight, kid? You'll never raise that grade if you don't practice."

"How about you just do my math homework for me?" Miles suggests bitterly.

"No, Miles. I can help you learn it, but I won't do it for you. It's algebra; it's easy. What's the big deal?"

Miles feels bone-crushingly stupid again. "I just don't get it," he says lamely. He feels oddly like crying. He's scared shitless he'll fail math, get kicked off the football team, and Peter-fucking-Shapiro will snag his position. Then Pop will kill him.

Miles falls asleep while pondering catastrophe, so in the morning Pop gives Miles such a verbal shellacking for neglecting the laundry that Miles almost does cry. Pop marches to Miles's room and begins yanking off the sheets, which should have been laundered along with the work shirts.

"These smell like they haven't been washed since the Civil War," Pop barks.

Miles is a teenager and having his stained bed sheets exposed to his father is stranglingly humiliating. His father regards them with evident disgust.

"The Lord punishes those who abuse themselves. You'll go to confession today after school."

"I have practice, sir." Miles's cheeks are burning scarlet.

"After practice then. And you'll report to me the exact number of Our Fathers and Hail Marys the priest assigns you, or I'll take away the keys to your car."

Miles's lip briefly trembles, but he knows nothing makes Pop madder than seeing a man lose control. He bites the offending lip and stands very still until Pop dismisses him.

Ben is waiting in Pop's old pickup truck to drive Miles to school and collect Bass on the way. After a one-block drive, Bass scrambles in the back and arranges himself in the cramped quarters of the cab, his legs smashed up to his chin.

Bass instantly knows Miles has been chewed out by the old man. He asks, "You ok, Miles?"

It's such a caring gesture that it makes Miles feel like Bass is the only person in the world who really loves him. There's Emma, Miles supposes, but Emma knows so little about what it's like to be the Matheson boys. Bass possesses encyclopedic knowledge of Miles's family history. Bass was there to see Miles's mom waste away from disease, vomiting into a kidney-shaped dish, a prisoner of the couch. Bass was there when they closed the lid on her pale, withered body, while Miles's eyes burnt like acid but no tears fell. Bass knows that Pop can be so mean that it rips your heart in two, but it's not because Pop is a bad person. It's because his mind got fucked up in Vietnam, he came home to a country that spat on his sacrifice, and then, in the ugliest twist of fate of all, his soul mate died, leaving him with two ungrateful boys.

Bass puts his hand on Miles's shoulder from the backseat, and Ben eyes the tender gesture with a look that Miles mistakes for jealousy. Ben and Miles are light years apart from each other, and always have been. They just don't get each other. Bass is more his brother than Ben will ever be.

Bass changes the subject, lightening the mood. "How's the Challenger, man?"

Miles allows his shoulders to ease under Bass's hand.


	6. Chapter 6

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

* * *

A fat droplet of sweat oozes from Miles's brow, slides down to his chin, and finally lobs off onto Zeppelin's chestnut mane. The pit of Miles's stomach has twisted into a tight, burning knot, and every step his horse takes is agony for him. There can be no mistaking it: Miles is sick. Really sick. It could be malaria; it could be dysentery; hell, it could be the flu, and even that might kill him. Well, on second thought, it's probably not dysentery – Miles hasn't shat in days. It's difficult to perch on the saddle when your intestines have turned to dried cement.

Thinking back, he can guess where he went wrong. Maybe ten or so days ago, his Atlanta-bound riding party had stopped to cook some meat, and he had taken his portion. He'd heard a rustle in the leaves and dashed off with his sword to check on the source. It had only been a deer, it's large, watery eye taking him in before flashing off into the woods. By the time Miles had returned to the campfire, his meat was covered in flies, but he was so hungry that he just brushed them off and ate ravenously. _'You know what flies mean?' his LT had said back in the Marine Corps; 'Disease. So steer clear of them.'_

Miles sways slightly in the saddle, and he can feel Zeppelin getting nervous under him. Illness is no trifling thing in the Black. Those people who weren't killed off by the Great Dying were the lucky ones, the strong ones. But that doesn't change the fact that disease and death remain a normal part of life now – far more common and banal than before the power went out.

Alec is observant and has been watching Miles for the past few hours. He has never seen Miles ill before. Hell, he hasn't really seen the old man show weakness before. Finally, Alec grows so concerned that he requests a halt.

"I need to piss," Alec explains to the group. He watches as Miles almost tumbles out of his mount. The others have noticed now, too - it's impossible not to.

Miles stumbles toward a tree and manages to unzip himself to pee. He contemplates attempting to relieve his aching bowels again but can't handle the thought of another disappointment on that front.

"Miles, what's wrong?" Alec asks, coming to pee alongside him.

"Hm? Nothing. Just pissing," Miles mumbles. He supports himself with a hand on the bark and almost swoons.

"You're sick. I can tell. You're riding weakly," Alec says quietly. It comes out more like criticism, when it's really just concern.

Miles looks at him sharply and zips back up.

"We can bed down here for the rest of the day, so you can recover," Alec suggests.

"No. We're only two days out from Atlanta. We can't afford not to make it on time. Bass has a limited window of opportunity before he'll be spotted."

"Can't afford to have you die either."

Miles scoffs.

"Miles!" Alec protests, gripping his arm.

Miles roughly shakes him off. "It's nothing!"

The kiss off. Miles feels bad for being so abrupt. It always scares him how much he cares for the kid. Miles doesn't want to die; he wants to live to see Alec surpass him. He wants to see Alec fall in love, get married, have kids - the whole nine. Everything Miles never got to have...except the falling in love part - Miles did experience that and somehow never managed to fall out of it. But love has only resulted in rib-scraping heartache for Miles. He wants better for Alec.

By the time they ride into the capital, Miles's fever is elevating dangerously, and he's a little afraid he'll collapse on Kelly's front steps like a shed coat. So many goddamned steps. Kelly's guards lead the rest of Miles's party to their rooms to settle in, while Miles is brought wheezing to the presidential office. He must look terrible, because the men are giving him a wide berth. Miles is almost surprised they're letting him in to see Kelly at all.

But next thing Miles knows, he is standing before President Foster, and she looks like she's about to shake his hand.

"I wouldn't," Miles cautions her, and her hand freezes and wilts back to her side.

Whenever Miles sees Kelly, he is reminded that he genuinely likes her. She's regal-looking, smart, feisty, and can hold her own against a bully.

"The security in this building sucks," Miles says, just to make conversation. "They let a sick guy like me in."

Kelly cocks her head and motions for Miles to sit, as she too takes a seat.

She responds, "Well, I have the good fortune of _not_ being a detested dictator whose people wish I were dead. Therefore, security here is relatively light compared to what you're used to, no doubt. I hear you've constructed Philadelphia into something of a fortress. Shame. It was such a beautiful city before you two brutes got your hands on it."

Miles coughs hoarsely into his sleeve.

Kelly sighs. "Well, I suppose we'd better get you into bed and have one of my physicians take a look at you. You look like hell, and I don't want you breathing all over my stuff."

Miles can't help but smile a little.

"I probably wouldn't have even let you in here, if one of my guards hadn't seen the rose spots on your neck."

"The what now?"

"You've got typhoid fever, it would seem. It's not terribly contagious, except hand to mouth. We, of course, don't have the right kind of antibiotics, but we can give you something that might help lessen the duration." Kelly thinks better about adding: _and increases your chances of survival_. Her voice softens a bit when she asks: "Are you in pain?"

Miles wants to tell her that if he doesn't shit soon, his intestines might explode, but that topic seems too crass even for him to broach in the presidential suite. Instead he gets up and says, "I appreciate your hospitality, Kelly."

* * *

Nora reluctantly follows Alec into Miles's sick room. Neither of them is sure what they are supposed to be doing with themselves since reaching the capital city. They need orders from the general.

Miles has been stripped to the waist and laid out with a wet cloth on his chest. A raven-haired doctor is taking his pulse and turns to look at the intruders.

"His fever is cresting, so he may not be coherent," she explains to them. Then she adds as an afterthought, "I'm Dr. Faire."

"What does he have?" Alec asks her, wondering why Nora is lingering so far behind him.

"Typhoid. You can approach – just don't get too close. And don't let him make you a sandwich. Typhoid is often spread through food or water," Dr. Faire explains, cracking a wry smile. Apparently a sassy sense of humor is common among the Georgians.

"What are his chances?" Alec gets to the point.

Faire studies Alec's face, noticing that his concern appears to go beyond the usual relationship between a general and his captain. "He has a good chance of making it, but he'll be laid out for weeks, perhaps even a month. You think this phase is bad: just wait until the pea-soup diarrhea begins." She turns back to Miles and puts her hand to his forehead, humming to herself.

Nora takes a few more steps back from the bed swallows forcefully.

"We need a moment alone with him, doctor," Alec informs.

Faire glances up. "Ok, just don't touch him."

"Got it," Alec says briskly.

"Like I said, he's delirious. He may not know you," Faire reminds, swishing her black hair and long white coat as she makes her exit.

"What's wrong with you, Nora?" Alec asks irritably.

"I hate sick people," Nora explains miserably.

"Well that's terribly loyal of you. Go wait outside then," Alec suggests.

Nora departs in a flash.

Alec shakes his head and pulls up a chair to Miles's side.

"Miles," Alec tries.

Miles is writhing and moaning quietly. His eyes are squeezed shut.

"Miles!" Alec says more sharply. This produces the desired effect: Miles opens his bleary eyes but appears unable to focus.

"It's Alec. I need an order from you. How should we proceed with plans? Do you want me to send a courier to Bass?"

Miles moans again. He's totally gone, Alec realizes. Damn. This makes him the ranking officer. While he is momentarily tempted to simply adjust and follow through with Miles's plans for setting a bomb at the capital, he also realizes that Miles and Bass are privy to a diplomatic picture that is far more complicated than the one he knows. No, he will have to fetch Bass from his ship right away. That will mean that Foster will know Sebastian Monroe is not home in the Republic where he's supposed to be, but here in Georgia seas. It's an unmistakable sign of aggression. This could mean war – war with the two leaders of the Monroe Republic trapped in the capital city of the enemy.

Alec finds Nora outside in the hall.

Nora has been pacing back and forth. It's not that she _hates_ sick people – she's not sure why she said it like that. It's that they unnerve her. She is, in fact, very worried for Miles. If he were to waste away like this and die…her stomach lurches at the thought. She can't believe that the man writhing pale-faced and sweaty in bed is the same man who was entangled in the sheets with her just a few weeks ago. Battle wounds she's fine with – any kind of wound really – sucking chest, splintered bones, exposed muscle. She's seen it all and can apply a tourniquet, hold a bandage firmly in place. Sickness is different. It _changes_ people. They go from being clear-thinking, authoritative leaders like Miles to being as helpless as babies. It's a transformation that reminds Nora how fragile humans are. It's the mental vulnerability as opposed to the physical that gets her. It's why she tried to hide her mother's death from Mia for so long right after the End of the World. If Mia crumbled emotionally, what was to stop Nora from her own mental collapse? The mind constitutes the person so much more than the flesh.

"Nora, got a job for you," Alec is saying, so Nora snaps out of her reverie. "You've got to get a message to Monroe. Tell him about Miles's illness, and ask him for new orders."

"What? You want me to ride all the way back to the Republic?" she asks incredulously.

Alec realizes then that Nora hasn't been briefed on the scope of the mission. "No. Bass is with our fleet off the coast of Savannah."

Nora regards him silently. She isn't moving.

Alec needs to find a way to prod Nora into action, but he's not the one sleeping with her, and from what he can tell, she only does Miles's bidding. "I think this goes without saying that this is time sensitive," Alec adds, hoping this will cause her glued feet to come unstuck.

"I get that. What are they planning on having me do: blow up the harbor?"

"Whatever the plans _were_ they are going to have to change. Miles isn't going anywhere for the better part of a month. Will you do it, Nora? I don't want to involve the other militiamen. At the very least, you won't have to be around Pea-Soup Miles."

"Please don't remind me of that. I'll do it."

Alec is a little annoyed that Nora doesn't appear more concerned for Miles. Alec watched his own mother die of dysentery during the Great Dying, and it was horrible to see her beautiful ebony skin turn ashy and her innards slowly leak from her body. She was skinny as a greyhound when he said goodbye to her and kissed her forehead for the last time. Alec feels relief when Nora sweeps out the door with a map he has provided of Monroe's whereabouts.

* * *

Two mammoth guards flank Bass as he makes his way up the many steps to Kelly Foster's office. The guards almost look like they're taking pleasure in delivering the leader of the Monroe Republic – so much so that Bass has the impish impulse to trip them and see if that wipes the insufferable smirks off their faces. Bass isn't interested in going through the motions of pleasantries with Kelly before seeing for himself that Miles is ok. But he hasn't got a choice.

The guards throw open Kelly's door with triumphant flourish, and Bass sees that Kelly has her brown curls tied back in her familiar knot. Something about the style is prudish and nineteenth century. The sight of the restrained hair only makes him more anxious to see Miles.

"President Foster."

"Sebastian," Kelly says in greeting, and it annoys Bass that she doesn't return the honorific, nor does she get up from her chair, as if she already has the edge on him.

So he dispenses with the formalities. "Did you poison him?"

Kelly gestures for Bass to sit in a leather-upholstered chair. "Poison him? Of course not. If I had poisoned him he'd be dead." Kelly smiles lightly. She passes Bass a cup of tea from a tray and slides over the cream and a bowl of sugar. "Miles is sick with typhoid fever. I'm guessing it's because your filthy country has a sanitation problem, since he contracted it on your side of the border."

Bass's mouth twitches at the insult, but he holds his temper and tries a sip of the tea. It's delicious, and he wonders if it's from Europe or even Asia. "Miles was inoculated against typhoid in the Marine Corps like me."

"It's one of those diseases that needs a booster vaccine every few years to be effective, Sebastian. But don't worry: Miles will probably survive. He's strong, and my doctors are competent."

She looks like a schoolmarm with that hairdo, Bass decides – a shame because she really is elegantly pretty. Bass does not appreciate her bringing up the fact that Miles could die. "I'll stay here until he recovers," he says to Foster.

Kelly finally allows her lips to broaden into a smile, and it thaws some of the ice. "Well I'm not surprised to hear it. You two are the loves of each other's lives."

Bass snorts in amusement. "You're just envious because you don't have someone you can implicitly trust."

Her smile fades. "You're wrong. I can trust the people of Georgia, because I'm a democratically elected official. A popular one at that." Kelly takes a sip of her own tea, wrinkling her forehead. "No, I'm not surprised you've come to stay with Miles. What _does_ surprise me is that you got here so quickly...indeed _so_ quickly that I can only assume that you were already nearby. What, pray tell, brought you to my neck of the seas?"

Bass thinks quickly: "Texas."

"Texas?" Kelly asks briskly.

Her face has changed, and Bass can tell he's accidentally hit upon something. Her look seems to say: _So you know_. This is an interesting development. Bass decides to let it drop for now.

"I'd like to see Miles now. Please," Bass decides to add in a more cordial tone. Kelly immediately agrees to his request and asks one of her aides to take Bass to Miles's sick room.

Bass is relieved to find Miles lying in a pristine bed, an old-fashioned map of the world hung above him. It still shows places like the United States, Mexico, Cuba. Places that have receded into little more than lore. Miles appears almost as white as the bedclothes but with a scarlet dot splashing each cheek, suggesting that he is feverish. Bass instantly feels for him. He pulls up a chair and touches Miles's hot arm.

"Hey, Miles. It's Bass."

Miles opens his dark eyes. "Bass. What the hell are you doing here?" He moans and shifts.

"Of course I'm here. We look out for each other. You gonna be ok, buddy?" Bass asks gently.

"I'll be fine. Just keep sharp things away from me because I might be tempted to put myself out of my misery. I feel like the underbelly of hell."

"You look it. They treating you alright?"

"Yeah. Kelly's doctors have been good to me. So...you're here. What did you tell Kelly about that?"

"I told her...well it doesn't matter what I told her. What matters now is Texas is brewing up something, something Kelly thinks we already know about."

Miles tries to focus on Bass's face. "What?" He coughs and winces.

"We're going to have to figure out what that is."

"Jesus, Bass. Texas?" Miles tries to shake his head. "I can't think straight. I feel like my brain is boiling."

Bass says, "Well, we could still use the bombing diversion. See if I can get my hands on any of Kelly's papers. But…I don't really see how we could keep you safe."

Miles interjects, "No. Things are too fucked up for that. Tell Nora…well _ask_ Nora if she'd be willing to use her, you know, feminine wiles to get in with Kelly's aide Michael Gonzales. I saw him ogling her when we first got here."

Bass studies Miles for a moment. "Let me get this straight. You're asking me to ask your girlfriend to sleep with someone for information? You really think Gonzales is that stupid that he'd give something up?"

"Probably not _that_ stupid. But Nora might be able to get a key off him or something. And she doesn't have to fuck him to get her hands in his pants." Miles coughs again.

"Man, after this is all over we're going to have another talk about your love life. It's seriously fucked up. I thought you were falling for Nora, but I guess I was wrong. So honestly, I can't see why you brought her along."

Miles's eyebrows form an angry line. He's not sure how to respond to the first accusation, so he lays into the second one: "I already told you. Nora's here because she's my bomber."

"Miles. I've seen you in love. You're so jealous you could cause someone to spontaneously combust with your eyes." Bass shakes his head. He knows this because he's been afraid of what Miles would do to him if Miles were to find out about him sleeping with Emma…or his feelings for Rachel. "Man, what are you even doing with Nora?"

Miles feels the urge to throw something heavy at Bass to make him stop talking. Instead he barks: "Bass, get the fuck out of here and let me rest."

Bass lets it drop because Miles is coughing again.

"Ok, man, Ok. Feel better soon."

As Bass leaves, Miles tries to think through his mental haze. Bass is right – people like Miles shouldn't be trying to build things with other people. He's only good at tearing things down. But part of Miles is curious to see if he _can_ get love right. The thing with Emma, well, he never really knew why that ended. But he was young and stupid and probably just fucked it up somehow. But his brief time with Rachel – that was the most intense emotional experience of his life. From the very beginning, it had been unholy, wrong – a betrayal of his brother. Miles turns over and attempts to conjure the feeling of Rachel running a cool hand over his cheek and the sounds of her whispering that stupid song she'd sing those nights when he was staying with her in Chicago trying to recover from his captivity in Afghanistan.

_Overhead the albatross_  
_Hangs motionless upon the air_  
_And deep beneath the rolling waves_  
_In labyrinths of coral caves_  
_An echo of a distant time_  
_Comes willowing across the sand._1

So fucking melancholy – he didn't know why she insisted on singing that of all songs. The fanciful bird that didn't even exist, stuck in midair; reverberations of sound roaming across the sandy expanse of the war Miles couldn't stop fighting in his head. Forever after, those words _became_ Afghanistan to Miles. He squeezes his eyelids together and tries to will himself to recover, to live through this.

* * *

1. Pink Floyd, "Echoes."


	7. Chapter 7

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

_A/N: Sorry dudes - I've been out of town, and the proverbial poop has hit the fan in terms of RL commitments. I have a few chapters about ready to go, but I'll post this one, because I've been over it more times. We'll hit up the past in the next chapter again. For now, we return to Atlanta._

* * *

Bass is looking for Nora. He is peevish, unable to extricate himself from a cycle of morose ponderings.

It's him – Bass – who is supposed to be the top-ranking official of the Monroe Republic. Miles hadn't wanted it. When Bass suggested the insane idea that they construct some kind of political entity from the rubble of the fallen United States, Miles had agreed to be Bass's general – that was it. Miles did not understand government; he was unsettled by civilians – had no real use for them. The post-apocalypse world was like a gladiator arena to Miles: kill or be killed. But now, every time Bass turns around, it seems that Miles is exceeding him in political prestige. Even sick in bed and maybe dying, Miles commands Kelly Foster's respect, while Bass is relegated to a kid playing at king.

For instance, Bass had asked to meet with Kelly today, but her secretary turned him away. Apparently, Foster instructed the secretary to convene a meeting with both of the Monroe Republic's leaders when Miles was feeling well enough. And then, of course, there remained the fact that Kelly had asked only Miles to Atlanta in the first place. Bass briefly entertains ordering his ships to annihilate the Georgian fleet just to show Foster who's boss.

Miles (if he were well enough to be conversing with Bass right now) would probably tell his friend to stop being such a pussy, hung up on Foster's approval and the attainment of status. Miles isn't like that. He's practical. He probably thinks Foster likes dealing with him better than Bass simply because Miles is laconic, and she knows she can do most of the talking. Miles probably doesn't like to think about the fact that he holds the real power: Foster's tacit admiration, the loyalty of the officers, the fear of the masses. Bass forces himself to shake off this line of thinking. It's pointless. He and Miles are on the same team; they each have their strengths. Irritating though that Miles's strength appears to be leading people out of the darkness, like some Biblical chosen one: a natural-born leader.

Bass turns back to the subject at hand: Nora. He is not looking forward to delivering Miles's request for Nora to extract intelligence on Texas from Michael Gonzales, Foster's aide. Best to get it over with. It has taken him forever to locate Nora, who turns out to be across the street from the capital building having a glass of wine at a café. This amuses Bass, taking the edge off his bad mood. It makes him feel like he's meeting a date in Paris. Adding to the general atmosphere of romance, the magnolias are in bloom, their faint lemony scent an aromatic encapsulation of the summer sun.

"Mind if I join you, Nora?" Bass asks her, and even he is surprised at the cheer he musters in his tone.

Nora nods. Bass notes the sweat trickling down her elegant, tanned neck. She really is an attractive woman.

"Wine, huh? It's been years since I've had any." Bass signals to the waiter that he'd like a glass. It's the kind of thing they can't get in the Monroe Republic anymore.

"I've never tried it before," Nora says blandly.

"Like it?" Bass smiles.

"Not particularly. I always thought it'd be sweet somehow. Like grape juice. Though I barely remember what that tastes like."

"Wine is like coffee: the imagining of the taste greatly surpasses the reality…but it gets better the more you drink it. And eventually: it's damn good." Bass stares at her seriously, then smiles very broadly. "Same as sex."

Nora gives him a warning look. Bass makes her uncomfortable. She knows how close he and Miles are, but she doesn't necessarily see what Miles sees in Bass. Bass strikes her as mildly unhinged. Both Miles and Bass have a threatening, cold quality lurking just beneath their veneers, but Nora has also seen Miles stripped down. The coldness in Miles is a defense mechanism. In Bass…well, it might just be the truth of the man.

"Speaking of sex, Miles wants me to ask you for a favor," Bass says.

And this is a perfect example of why Nora doesn't care for Bass. The bait and switch.

Further, she's feeling extraordinarily guilty on the topic of Miles, whose sick room she has been avoiding. For a person who doesn't believe in God, she has been spending an inordinate amount of time praying for Miles's speedy recovery. She briefly wonders where Bass is going with the topic of sex and Miles, which devolves into a ludicrous fantasy about sex being the only thing that will cure Miles of typhoid fever – a kind of twisted take on Sleeping Beauty.

Bass is studying her, still smiling, as her cheeks have reddened slightly. "Michael Gonzales: Foster's aide," Bass says without offering further context.

"What about him?" Nora asks, her eyes suddenly narrowing.

"Miles wants you to get information off him, or perhaps access to Foster's files. We need to find out what Foster knows about Texas."

"Texas!" Nora exclaims with alarm.

She's constantly worried about the possibility of her home state going to war with the Monroe Republic – it's a mental conflict of interest she's not prepared to entertain. Texas not only has a bloodthirsty general and a sizable cavalry (many of whom are Comanche – an Indian nation with astonishing horse skills), it also has countless paramilitary groups and random guerrillas that administer vigilante justice at the local level. Truth to tell, she doesn't entirely understand how the Texas government shakes out…if they even have one. All she knows is that it was an incredibly dangerous place to live as a teenage girl with a young sister and no protection. After Nora got brutally raped one night just ten feet from her sleeping sister, she vowed to leave the South forever. She still remembers the warm sting of the Gulf water as she tried to wash the rapist's seed from her before returning to her sister's side. Before the blackout, her father would never have let her swim in the water – it was filthy, oily. Afterward, it was her only chance of getting clean. Mia never knew why they left in such a hurry. Or so Nora told herself.

The Georgia Federation was still nascent when Nora and Mia had passed through, groping around in the eternal night for a new home. Democracy takes considerably longer to establish than dictatorship. Therefore, it's no surprise that the Monroe Republic was one of the first to arise after the Blackout. Nora knows that Bass and Miles are only questionably competent leaders – their morals muddy and their methods unquestionably violent. Calling their country a republic? A far cry from truth. But still, she admires what they've accomplished. Is grateful even. They gave two little lost girls a home – a place where they could find protection as long as they followed the Militia's rules.

Bass is talking again and confirms, "Texas, Nora. Kelly knows something important about Texas. Something she thinks we already know."

"So how exactly does Miles expect me to get what you need out of Gonzales?" Nora asks warily. She's afraid of the answer.

"His exact words were to use your feminine wiles."

"Fuck you," Nora returns with hostility.

"Well, perhaps fuck _Gonzales_. Or just get him drunk and take the keys out of his pants. Your call."

"That's what Miles wants?" Nora asks suspiciously, feeling painfully betrayed.

"That's _exactly_ what he said to me," Bass assures, taking the smallest amount of pleasure in wrecking havoc in their relationship; really, this is all Miles's fault.

"Fine," she says cooly. She thinks to herself, _If that's what Miles wants, then that's what he'll get. _

Nora pushes back her chair and goes after Gonzales this very minute, cursing under her breath. She wants to go to Miles's room and pound on his chest and tell him he's an asshole. She pauses for a moment and asks herself why she's so angry. _He must not really care about me_, she thinks. _Or he wouldn't be ok with this._

* * *

Nora has got Gonzales drinking in his room. He's tight lipped but horny – an irritating and revolting combination. He keeps pawing at her breasts, and she keeps trying to deflect him. She feels like she could snap at any moment and run him through with her sword.

Gonzales sits on his bed and unzips his pants. "C'mere, baby. I want your mouth on me," he suggests.

His dick is ugly, twisted almost, and she's close enough that the vague moldy clay scent of him turns her stomach. She feels like laughing hysterically at his request…or perhaps crying. She hates Miles for getting her into this.

Nora thinks quickly, "First let me finish my drink." She crosses behind Gonzales to reach for her whiskey and clocks him with the back of her sword. He crumbles into unconsciousness.

"Shit," she says out loud, looking at him lying there, fly open, dick hanging out like a withered milk sausage. Her hand fishes around in his pockets unpleasantly close to his bare skin. She finds the keys and exits like a ghost.

She knocks on Bass's door, and in a flash he's there.

"Here they are," Nora says briskly, thrusting the keys at him. "I'll get you to the office, unlock the door, and then I'm taking the keys back. He could wake up any minute, and I don't want him to realize I knocked him out. He needs to think he passed out because he's wasted."

In less than five minutes Nora has helped Bass gain access to the office and is back in Gonzales' room, shoving the keys back into his pocket. He moans and rolls over. She slaps his cheeks lightly to wake him up.

"Look," she says forcefully, as Gonzales peers at her through bleary eyes. "I'm not in the habit of going down on unconscious guys. I'll leave you to sober up. This was a big mistake on my part. Please don't come near me again." She says the last part with a good bit of menace in her tone and takes some pleasure in the fear she sees flash across his face on her way out.

* * *

It's one in the morning, and Nora knows Miles is sick, but she's so angry at him that she marches straight to his room. The moon is particularly bright – nearly full – and so when she opens his door, she is surprised to see him sitting up in a chair in only his boxer shorts, staring out the window.

"Nora!" Miles exclaims quietly. "Haven't seen you in a few weeks." He smiles a bit wryly. "Not much of a caretaker instinct, huh?"

She shuts the door and walks over to him, folding her arms. "You fucking asshole," she says at barely a whisper. It feels good to say it aloud.

He lifts an eyebrow, the amusement slowly fading from his lips. Miles shivers a little, not from cold – it's nearly as hot and humid as in the daytime – but from lingering illness. "If you're going to berate me, I'm going to need to lie down." He moves back to bed to nestle under the white sheets. "Want to join me?" he asks suddenly.

"No. You're sick!" she protests, before she even thinks about the other objection – which is that she's in the middle of telling him off for the disgusting encounter with Gonzales's dick.

"I'm not contagious anymore. Doc says." And then Miles does something Nora has a very hard time resisting. He puts his arms out like a child asking for a hug. She doesn't even recall them hugging before. It's not that kind of relationship. Miles isn't that kind of guy.

She makes a small sound of frustration and whispers, "No, Miles. I'm pissed at you. Gonzales tried to get me to suck him off."

"Did you do it?" Miles asks seriously. He looks upset.

"What if I did? It's what you asked me to do, isn't it? Sleep with him so you could get information?" she spits the words at him like bullets.

Miles runs his hand over his face. "I thought you'd be smart enough to charm him without going that far."

"So now you're calling me stupid!" she objects. She wants to throw something at him.

"_Did_ you sleep with him?" Miles asks, anger in his voice.

"NO."

"What did you do then?"

"I got him drunk and then knocked him out!" her whisper has almost escalated to a dangerous rage.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Nora…"

"Miles, do you fuck other women?" Nora interrupts with a vicious non-sequitor.

"What?" Miles looks at her in surprise and then sits up abruptly. "C'mere." He pats the side of the bed. His ire has clearly dissolved.

She acquiesces in quiet fury and sits on the edge of the bed, not quite touching him. She can tell the sheets have been freshly laundered today – the clean smell soothes her slightly. Miles runs his hand down her arm, and she jerks away.

"Don't touch me," she warns.

Miles removes his hand and speaks instead. "I haven't slept with anyone else since we started seeing each other." Then, in a quiet voice, Miles adds, "Have you?"

"No," Nora says grumpily. She starts, "If you care about me at all -"

"I care about you," Miles interrupts quickly.

"Then why would you be ok with me sleeping with that asswad?"

"I wasn't. That's why I was sitting up here awake thinking about you."

Nora looks sharply at him.

"Nora," Miles says and pulls her hand.

Nora finally allows gravity to pull her into a lying down position. She's exhausted, she realizes. The masculine scent of Miles's sweat is slightly masked by the herbal treatments he's been receiving, and against her good judgment, she finds she wants to bury her face in his chest and seek it out. But she resists.

"You'll do anything to get what you want, won't you?" Nora says to Miles without turning her head. "I don't know. It's too much sometimes…" she trails off.

"I don't have a choice, Nora. Do you realize what could happen here? Worst case, we get caught in a war with both Georgia and Texas at once, while we're stuck down here with a handful of ground troops and half a naval fleet. The Republic could fall if we make one stupid move."

Nora gives into the exhaustion that overwhelms her chest. "Enough. I don't want to hear it."

"Ok," Miles says simply. The Monroe Republic is his responsibility - his and Bass's. If Nora doesn't want to think about it, she doesn't have to.

Nora is relieved that Miles doesn't want to argue.

Miles asks Nora after a pause, "What do you want to talk about then?"

She recognizes an opportunity. "You."

Miles grunts, his eyebrow arched. "What about me?"

Nora shrugs slightly. "Just want to know you better."

Miles snorts. "Ok. Like what?"

Nora thinks for a while and then realizes what she's most curious about even though it's silly. "When did you, you know, lose it?"

"What, my virginity?" Miles laughs a little. The question is so childlike, it has caught him completely off guard. "Um, when I was fifteen. To a girl called Emma."

"What was she like?"

"Emma? Pretty hair. Cute little freckles. Nice girl."

"Were you serious about her?"

"Dead serious. I proposed to her."

"Like you got down on one knee?"

Miles nods. "Mm hm."

"I can't picture it. So what happened? How did it end?"

"Well, 9/11 happened. I was twenty; Bass and I enlisted. We went off to basic training. She wrote me to say she couldn't bear the thought of being a Marine's wife. That she'd rather not experience love at all than spend her days wondering if I were dead or life."

"Ouch."

Miles shrugs. "She was probably right. In those days, soldiers and civilians just didn't mix."

Nora can tell that Miles is more affected than he's letting on. After a pause, Miles asks a question that, for some reason, Nora hasn't thought to anticipate.

"When did _you_ lose it, Nora Clayton?"

Nora's stomach drops. "Um…I…" she thinks about telling Miles about the first time she had sex in the Monroe Republic to some oversized lunk she met in a bar. It was a passably enjoyable affair. But she's too weary to lie, and the hurt of being with Gonzales is fresh and raw. She finds that she wants Miles to feel bad about it all over again. "I was raped in Texas. It's why I left."

Miles is quiet for a long time. "How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

Miles exhales long and low. "Sorry." _For what_, Miles thinks: _the rape? For asking about it?_

"You helped me though," she says and glances sideways at him.

"I…what?" Miles furrows his brow. He's lost.

"You gave me a home."

"Don't follow."

"The Republic. It was a place to go, to find some peace. I was…_am_ grateful for it."

"Uh, you're welcome?"

Nora smiles but then quickly adds in a serious tone, "Please don't go to war with Texas."

"Believe me, Nora. Nobody wants to go to war with Texas less than I do."


	8. Chapter 8

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

_A/N: Thanks to those reading and reviewing! You are a joy._

* * *

**The Past**

The Marines are encamped just outside of Baghdad. It wasn't easy for Bass to get away from Miles, as they've merged into something resembling Siamese twins since coming to Iraq. The evasive maneuver did require a rather unkind _Miles, could you give me one fucking minute of privacy?_ But Bass has finally achieved solitude and sits upon a sandbag, pencil poised above paper. _Dear Emma_, he begins…but isn't sure what comes next. He's lost track of how many letters he's written to Emma that she hasn't returned with so much as a postcard. What makes this time any different? The difference, Bass believes (he hopes), is that he's seen real combat now, which confers on him new status. But he hasn't forgotten how Emma blew off Miles during Basic. She said she couldn't bear the thought of being married to a Marine, and though Bass knows their secret tryst lay beneath this excuse, it also makes him nervous. She wouldn't have thought to pen those words if there weren't some truth to them. Bass swallows and writes:

_We saw our first real combat a few days ago. Some of our squad didn't make it. It put some things in perspective for me: like you, like us. I think about you every day. I know it's awkward that you and Miles were engaged, but life is too short for me to pass up the opportunity to ask you, beg you if necessary, to reconsider me. I'll work it out with Miles – you don't have to worry about that. I'd do anything for you, Emma. I love you._

Those three words. He hadn't had the opportunity to tell her in person, but he feels as sure of them now as he feels the pulse throbbing in his neck. He closes and seals the letter and hides it in his pocket to await the post. He supposes he should locate Miles, who is probably sulking somewhere. He saw the hurt in Miles's eyes when he told Miles to take a hike. He just hopes his best friend didn't slink off too far in his funk – it's dangerous out here.

Bass is correct: Miles _is_ brooding perilously far from his unit. He's been feeling extra raw since receiving his father's letter. He briefly considered writing Ben and decided against it. He even thought about writing Emma to extract a pity letter. Pathetic. Now Bass is pushing him away too. Miles gets it – he's not fun to be around when he's in the dumps, but he's never been able to manage despondency.

Miles's mother, Louise, was such a gentle, empathetic soul and tried to help Miles redirect his extreme negativity as a child. Miles remembers sitting in her lap one sultry Midwestern summer evening when he was around five or six.

_Louise was rocking him and humming in her low, calming voice. Miles was distressed about something – probably Ben not letting him play Skeletor again. Neither of the boys ever chose to play He-man. Louise stopped humming and tried kindly, "My sensitive baby. I can't help you if you won't tell me what's wrong. I can see you're upset."_

_Miles shook his head and buried his face in her chest. She smelled exactly like sugar cookies to him._

_"Miles, part of showing love is letting each other in on both the good and the bad. You understand?"_

_Miles didn't. He buried his face deeper, not crying, just hiding from the world. Even as a child, Miles fought the urge to weep. It was as if he was afraid to crack even just a little, or he'd break all the way into hopelessly irreconcilable shards. _

For some reason the heat of the desert reminds Miles of the comfort of his mother's bosom, though it doesn't smell like sugar cookies here. It smells like burning oil. Miles knows he has wandered further from his unit than is advisable, and he'll probably get chewed out for it. But Bass's push off almost made Miles want to put himself in danger to feel something besides the nagging self-loathing and self-pity. Miles has felt terribly unloved since his mother died, though he is incapable of pinpointing the exact origin of this emotion. Ben and Pop appear to tolerate Miles rather than really like him. So when Bass rejects him, it's the worst kind of emptiness.

Miles extracts Pop's knife from his pocket. He's not really supposed to have it with him in Iraq, but the LT has allowed it. Miles lies on his stomach in the sand and fingers the smooth wood handle.

_"Here, son. It'll keep you safe. Grandpa took it with him to Korea, me to Vietnam; we both made it. Make sure you always come home alive."_

_Miles had thought his father would be exceedingly proud of him for joining the Marines following 9-11. But Pop had only appeared resigned. Maybe it was strange, but Miles and Bass hadn't given their decision to enlist very much thought. They'd played soldiers all their lives, and when the United States was suddenly under attack, it felt natural for them to offer to defend their country. They didn't ponder the possibilities of death or catastrophic injury or mental turmoil. They just went to the local recruitment office and signed up. _

_"Pop…" Miles replied, taking the knife. "Thanks. I'll be safe. Don't worry about me."_

_"Son," Pop shook his head and looked away, squinting. "At your birth I only asked the Lord for one thing: that you wouldn't go through what I did. And now…now you've chosen exactly that thing."_

_Miles was startled by everything about this admission. The idea of Pop even being there at his birth seemed odd and unbelievable, like Pop would have been one of those men who went out drinking with the buddies, waiting for the good news at the bar, rather than dealing with the chaotic inconvenience of his and his mother's pain as they negotiated his arrival into the world. The second part was equally strange. Pop had always demanded that his boys give military servicemen and women their proper respect – elevated them almost to gods. Miles hadn't even considered that Pop might regret his own service in the Marines._

_"You're young. You think war is a game. But it'll make you ugly and mean. Like me. Your mother was so good. And here you go following in my footsteps. Well, you can't change a young person's mind." And with that Pop walked away._

_Thus had ended the most intimate moment of Miles's life with his dad. The truth was just this: Pop hated himself. _

Miles suddenly hears gunfire and screaming. What's amazing is he runs _toward_ the sounds of turmoil without thinking. That's the beauty of training. It takes every natural instinct of self-preservation and reprograms you into a warrior.

The Marines Miles finds are not familiar faces, but he falls in with them anyway and begins firing. There's a large convoy of Humvees parked between the Marines and the hostile forces, and both sides are using the vehicles as shields. During a brief lull, Miles catches sight of Bass huddled down the line and starts crawling toward him. Miles feels exposed without his best friend, like he's missing an arm or his trigger finger. But before he can get to Bass, the unthinkable happens: a Humvee blows up right in front of Miles. He is thrown off to the side and for a moment hears a hollow ringing, sees blackness, and has the sensation of falling through space. He lands hard in reality when his knee strikes against a metal object. _Shit_, Miles thinks. Something has popped in the knee. He shakes off the rattle in his head and looks wildly around for Bass.

Bass, it seems, has been crawling toward Miles and subject to the same blast. He's closer to Miles than expected and Miles grabs him and turns him over. Bass's left arm looks grotesquely misshapen. Miles believes he is shouting at Bass but can't hear himself – is not even sure what he is trying to say. Bass shakes his head, suggesting he can't hear either. Miles examines Bass's arm as gently as possible but feels clumsy. Bone, meat, and metal have mingled in a strange soup. Miles stares for a moment, and then has the urge to giggle of all things. Seeing a human bone on the outside makes Miles think of playing Operation as a child, fishing out the wishbone. He briefly considers shoving the bone back into place, because it looks so macabre, brandishing its pearly whiteness in the midst of so much squishy, bloody tissue. Bass is looking at Miles like he's crazy, and Miles thinks it must be because he's grinning. The knee is beginning to hurt now. He's still gripping Bass in his arms but manages shift his own leg to inspect the damage. It's then that he notices that Bass isn't the only one who's got Humvee embedded in his flesh: Miles's right inner thigh is ripped up to high Hell. He can't see the extent of the wounds, but he's suddenly terribly afraid for his balls. Without thinking, he pushes away Bass and desperately starts undoing his fly with the intention of dropping his pants, but Bass looks at him again likes he's crazy and cries, _Later, man!_ Or that's what his mouth seems to form. Miles still can't hear.

Bass, for his part, is in shock. His arm is bad. He's relieved to be with Miles again, but Miles has managed to go nutters in the few minutes they've spent apart. He's trying to remove his pants in the middle of combat for God sakes. Bass can tell Miles is wounded too, though probably less badly.

_Get up!_ He tries to yell at Miles, but Miles is now sitting on the ground with his legs straight out, like a child. Bass at first assumes Miles simply can't hear him, because both of their ears are blown out, but when he reaches down to hoist Miles with his one good arm, he can tell something's wrong with Miles's knee. This is an unforeseen problem, because Bass is in too much pain to support his friend's weight. But Miles is now limping like a champ and in a moment, medics are on them helping them to the rear.

They're brought to a tent where a medic cuts off Bass's sleeve and starts tending to his wound. Bass gazes at the arm. It's strange to see an appendage that has been attached to him his whole life look so foreign. He glances over at Miles, who has had his pants slit up both legs like chaps and is sitting there in red-spattered underwear. Miles winks at Bass, because Bass is staring at Miles's bloody crotch, and now Bass feels giddy. They have survived again, this time a much closer shave. They have inhaled the invincibility of youth.

"This is going to hurt," the medic suddenly warns Bass, and he blacks out before he can even register the pain.

* * *

Miles and Bass are at the airport in New York for their layover from Iraq. They've been granted leave to recover from their wounds. They can't help but feel a little proud when other passengers' eyes travel to the damaged extremities. Miles is in an air cast for his knee, and his upper, inner thigh is stiff from a massive piece of metal the surgeon dug out of it. This particular wound has led to no small number of jokes about Miles's testicles. "Keep an eye on the jewels." "How are the nuts?" etc. Thankfully, both of Miles's balls are unscathed, but it was a lucky break of only a few centimeters. Bass, on the other hand, has actually had to have surgery on a fairly severe arm break. The surgeon installed a metal rod to help fuse the broken bone, and Bass will be stuck in a cast for weeks.

Bass is anxious to be home, mainly to see Emma. He fantasizes about a sweaty, passionate reunion – plans to count the freckles on her cheeks, memorize the dip of her bellybutton. He's almost glad his wound is more severe than Miles's. The last thing Bass wants is for Emma to be drawn back to her old beau out of pity or awe. Bass still has the letter he never got to send to her tucked in his pocket.

When Bass calls his mother to confirm their arrival time at O'Hare, he casually asks if his mother has seen Emma lately. ("Miles wants to know," Bass lies.) The answer is like a punch to the gut: _Emma and her whole family have moved away; didn't Bass and Miles hear? _When Bass hangs up, he feels physically sick.

Bass plops morosely next to Miles, who is trying to prop his long leg on the seat across from him in the waiting area of the terminal but can't quite reach. It clatters to the ground.

"Ouch," Miles complains. His knee is painfully swelling from the first flight.

Bass's arm hurts too. Suddenly, being a wounded warrior has become less exhilarating and more inconvenient.

Miles glances at Bass's face. "What?" he asks with a mix of irritation and concern.

Bass shrugs. "Just not looking forward to being home all of a sudden. You?"

Miles shrugs back at him. "Almost feel like there's no home to go to, you know? I mean, gotta sell the house. Pop and Ben are gone…"

Bass almost forgot about all that. "Emma moved too. My mom happened to mention it," Bass adds quickly.

Now Miles looks equally glum, and Bass realizes that Miles was probably holding out hope for a reconciliation with her too.

Bass decides to change the subject. "You call Ben yet?" he asks Miles.

"Nope."

"Come on, man. You got to tell Ben what happened. Besides, your dad wanted you two to sell the house _together_."

Miles sighs and dials his brother on Bass's cellphone. Awkwardness descends like a pall. Bass puts his ear close to eavesdrop, and Miles doesn't stop him, because he doesn't want to face Ben alone.

"Benjamin," Miles says when he hears the familiar hello. Bass mocks the formality with a haughty face, and Miles rolls his eyes at him.

"Miles?" Ben asks in confusion.

Miles thinks for a moment and decides to cut to the important part. "I'm coming home for a few weeks. I'll be home tonight, actually. Think you can swing a few days to help me with the house?"

"Um…yeah. I can definitely take a few days off from the lab. But why are you home? I thought your tour isn't over for months."

Miles hesitates. Hell, Ben will find out when he sees Miles. "Humvee blew up near my unit. I'm ok, but I busted my knee and took some shrapnel in the leg."

Bass points down at Miles's lap. "Tell him about the nuts," Bass whispers into Miles's ear. Miles swats him away.

Ben is silent for a very long time.

Miles decides a follow-up is in order if this conversation is to ever end. "I'm fine, Ben. Don't worry about it."

Ben still isn't responding, and Miles is about to say, _Ok, see you when I see you_, when finally Ben says with a waver in his voice, "I'm sorry."

Miles coughs on some spit. "Sorry for what?"

"Sorry you're injured."

"Wounded. It's what we call it," Miles mumbles, confused and annoyed.

"Well I'm glad you're coming home," Ben says at last. "I can be home tomorrow afternoon. I'll bring my girlfriend, Rachel. You'll like her," Ben suggests.

Miles doubts he'll like Rachel if she's similar to Ben, but he says, "Yeah, great. See you then."

Bass asks Miles, "What did he say? I couldn't hear after you so rudely shoved me away."

"He said he's sorry I'm _injured_ and would I like to meet his girlfriend."

Bass rolls his eyes. "Civvies."

"Yep."

"I wonder if the girlfriend is hot. Do you think Ben has wild scientist sex? Like they use latex gloves and beakers on each other?"

"To do what?" Miles rolls his eyes in disgust.

"Why didn't you tell him about your balls, Miles? He of all people should be very concerned about the future of the Matheson seed."

"Cockfrock," Miles insults.

Bass nods happily. "I like that one. I'm picturing your dick in a frilly dress."

"Bass you're such a child. There are other people present."

Sure enough, an older lady's eyes have widened, and she has evacuated the nearby seat. The loud speaker announces their flight. They grab their backpacks.

Bass continues, "Remember, you can stay at my house as much as you want. My mom can't wait to see us! She said she'll make her famous ribs for Easter."

Miles grins and then frowns.

"What?" Bass asks.

"Ribs…kind of reminds me of what your arm looked like."

Bass smiles, because he sees real concern in Miles's eyes. He is suddenly very glad they're coming home together. "Ok then. Prime rib. No bones in that."

"Sounds good."


	9. Chapter 9

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

_A/N: Well, I had some inspiration, since it's Miles Matheson Appreciation Week. Oh, and in my canon Miles will always have tattoos, so suck on it Rev writers! ;) I feel very passionately about this topic.  
_

_This chapter is dedicated to Valantha, wandertogondor, and simbagirl for being exceptionally lovely readers! Your reviews have filled me with a love normally reserved for Miles and Bass. xo_

* * *

**The Past **

Ben is driving his girlfriend, Rachel, through his hometown toward the house where he grew up that will soon belong to a stranger. It somehow feels shabby, provincial. Rachel is a city girl: born, raised, and schooled in Chicago. Ben pulls up to the familiar driveway and can just make out the top of Miles's Marine haircut (which Ben always thinks makes him look like a hopeless meathead) above the railing of the front porch. Ben grabs Rachel's hand as they approach. He's feeling surprisingly emotional about the prospect of seeing Miles again (_wounded_ Miles) and of parting with the home where his mother died. He vaguely wonders if Miles will be like Pop now that he's been to war - callous, pissy, and disturbingly invested in a religion he doesn't understand. Miles has always been somehow both simple and hard to predict. It's a disconcerting combination for Ben.

Now Ben can tell what Miles is doing on the porch – scraping paint. His knee is in an air cast and splayed out to the side, while he perches precariously on the other knee. Miles is wearing a white t-shirt with short enough sleeves that his tattoos are just peeping out. Ben notices that Rachel's eyes drift straight to the black ink on the lean, chiseled arms. Ben squeezes Rachel's hand a bit tighter.

Rachel jokes, "Ben. You didn't tell me that your little brother is hot."

Ben smiles, but he feels instantly jealous. It's nonsensical, he knows. Miles isn't Rachel's type. She likes brainy, nerdy guys, not tattooed Marines who had trouble passing algebra. She also doesn't care for people who kill for a living. Ben wonders how many people Miles has killed so far.

Rachel observes Ben for a moment and senses his insecurity. "Don't worry, Ben. He's a jarhead. Soldiers, even if they were smart to begin with, get reprogrammed to be mindless drones. I'm not interested."

It's a little cruel to hear her say aloud what Ben has thought many times to himself, so he dives in to defend his little brother. "Miles _is_ smart. I mean not book smart, and he certainly doesn't think he's intelligent, but he is. He one of the more creative problem solvers I've met. You'd be surprised."

"Well maybe you should have told him that before he went and wasted himself on the Marines," Rachel suggests rather harshly.

Ben tries not to take it personally and smiles blandly. "Nobody could have changed his mind. He didn't even tell anyone until it was done...except Bass."

"His best friend, right?"

"You might say that. Or his real brother," Ben sighs. He waves off Rachel's glance of concern, as they approach Miles, still hard at work.

Miles has sensed them, but he doesn't know how he's going to cope with this particular reunion. His stomach feels sour.

"Miles! Should you really be doing that?" Ben exclaims as he approaches. They can tell now that Miles is attempting to spruce up the rickety porch for sale.

Miles finally looks up at the intruders and uses the railing to heft his body to standing. He limps over.

"Hey," Miles half smiles, holding out his hand, but Ben pulls him into a hug. Ben hates that their father always taught them that real men don't hug. Brothers should hug. Miles allows himself to be pulled in, but he's not squeezing as enthusiastically as Ben.

Miles takes a step back and squints at Rachel in the sun.

Ben says proudly, "And this is Rachel."

Miles puts out his hand again, but Rachel also pulls him in for an embrace, saying, "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."

Rachel's breasts squish against Miles's chest - the first contact he's had with a woman since Emma. Rachel doesn't wear a scent, doesn't smell like soap. She smells like woman. Miles can't explain it, but everything in his world suddenly smalls to one goal: trying to discern what it is she smells like. He's disappointed when she pulls back, and he hasn't identified the scent.

Rachel glances down at Miles's lower half presumably to catch a glimpse of the wounds, but Miles can't help but wonder if she's glancing to the pants. He sure as hell is checking her out. She's gorgeous – long legs, blond wavy hair. Not at all what Miles expected to see on his brother's girlfriend. He was expecting mousy brown locks and big, ugly glasses.

Miles tries to snap himself out of ogling her. It takes him a moment to mentally refocus his blood from pooling in his nethers. A raging boner is never a good first impression.

"Well. You hungry?" Rachel asks Miles. She has a vague smirk on her face, and Miles hopes his dick hasn't betrayed him.

After Miles registers her words, he cocks his head at her like she's from outer space. "Um."

"Ben and I can make you some dinner."

"Not Ben, I hope."

"Hey, little brother. I've been learning a thing or two about cooking. You wait and see," Ben says cheerfully.

"Just as long as it doesn't involve lettuce," Miles replies.

"Why not lettuce?" Rachel asks curiously.

"I'll explain inside," Ben returns, allowing contentment to settle into his limbs. This is going better than predicted. Maybe he and Miles can finally have a relationship.

* * *

Ben's hopes for a real brotherhood are nearly dashed by the end of dinner. Miles has said virtually nothing and stared down at his plate for the better part of thirty minutes, mumbling only "S'good. Thanks." Of course, then he insists on eating like a Marine: at top speed, as if competing with a squirrel for table scraps.

"I'll clear up," Miles quickly offers and leaps to his feet, gathering dishes.

Ben excuses himself to take a shower, and Rachel wanders in search of Miles - a rare and studiable creature. If she's honest, she's fascinated by him. She drifts into the kitchen, where Miles is standing at the sink, a cloth tucked into his back pocket.

She extracts the dishrag in a risky maneuver, and Miles tenses but then goes back to washing. She removes the plate from his hand to dry it.

"You don't speak unless you're spoken to, huh?"

Miles shrugs. "Don't see the point in talking if I don't have something to say."

"So...how are you doing with the idea of selling the house? Your dad did kind of dump this on you boys."

Miles shrugs again, and she's afraid that's all she'll get out of him until he says something worse: "It's fine. He sacrificed a lot to raise us. We can do this for him."

"You know, you don't have to make excuses for him." She's irritated now on behalf of Ben.

"Make excuses for who?"

"Your dad. He did kind of abandon you after making you join the army."

"The _Marines_. And Pop didn't make me; I wanted to enlist."

"See, you think that, but Service families - they get brainwashed. Ben was lucky to escape it."

Miles stops washing and looks at Rachel incredulously. "Really? I just met you, and you're making judgments about my family?"

"I didn't just meet _Ben_, Miles. We're serious. I consider you part of my family."

"Well I don't consider you part of mine, _Rachel_." He snarls her name. His temper has been flipped on, and he has a brief fantasy about grabbing Rachel by the shoulders and shaking her. (And then violently thrusting her up against the counter and fucking her.) He's really disturbed by his attraction to this woman, who isn't even nice to him. He's also a little concerned that he's evolved into a mental rapist.

Rachel puts up her hands as if to say, _Fine. I pushed too hard. But you're not off the hook._

Ben comes back in and glances from face to face. The tension hangs thick, and he is a peacemaker by nature, at least when his father's not around.

"Everything ok?" Ben prompts.

Rachel says, "Everything's fine. Just finishing up the dishes."

Miles tosses his sponge and stalks away. The phone rings. It's Bass.

"Hey, man. I saw Ben drive through town. What's his girlfriend like?"

"She's kind of a bitch, really. But...hot."

"Uh oh. That sounds like a dangerous combination." Bass pauses to process Miles's tone. Miles sounds unsettlingly pensive, and Bass suspects there is a lot more wrapped up in the girlfriend then 'hot' and 'bitch' have managed to convey. "Well, buddy, bring 'em both by tomorrow evening - 6 o'clock - for prime rib. Mom wants to see them, too."

Miles sighs.

"Don't be a wiener, Miles."

"Ok."

"Mom's making your favorite pie."

"I love Gail's pie."

"I know you do, precious nuts. I know. You sound like you've just been handed a 500-question algebra final, so I'm trying to cheer you up. Your brother get to you, again?"

Miles thinks for a long moment.

"Miles is thinking. Miles is feeling," Bass narrates in a monotone. He does this when he talks to Miles on the phone, because Miles is so laconic that invisible conversations are a labor of love on par with giving a woman a hand job.

Miles has trained himself to ignore Bass's badgering. "Um...just feels weird, being here. Seeing him. Ben seems...happy."

"You jealous?" Bass almost laughs at the last comment.

"No, butt munch. Just..."

"Just: _you're_ not happy. You don't know how to be. I love you, man, I really do, but you're a melancholic motherfucker. We'll fix you up tomorrow with some beef and some pies, ok? I'm going to go now before talking on the phone with you saps my will to live. Go upstairs, have yourself a glorious wank, and I'll be over in the morning to help you with the porch."

"One armed?"

"Yes! That's how much I love you."


	10. Chapter 10

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

* * *

Bass and Alec have pulled up chairs to Miles's bedside. Miles's cheeks have a tint of pink to them and his breathing is less labored. He is definitely on the mend – an immense relief to his companions.

"So, Bass. What did you find out about Texas?" Miles asks.

"I've only found out what Foster knows about Texas, or rather, thinks she knows. But it seems General Blanchard is planning to attack either Philly or Atlanta or possibly both."

"So Kelly had spies on our border…?" Miles asks, rubbing his eyes into focus.

"Probably to ascertain if we were in –"

"Don't say it – you know I hate that word -" Miles interrupts Bass.

"_Cahoots_ with Blanchard." Bass is triumphant.

"Ugh," Miles groans, burying his face in his hands.

Alec just shakes his head at them. He's known them long enough to recognize their banter doesn't mean they're any less serious about the problem at hand. In fact, Miles is now looking morosely out the window, while Bass is keenly observing him.

"Brain working now, Miles?" Bass asks. "Because I'm not sure what to do here."

Miles sighs. "I am."

_Supremely decisive, as if there is only one option. That is Miles Matheson_, Alec thinks and braces himself for the pronouncement.

"We need to kill Blanchard."

"What?" Bass asks in alarm.

Good thing Alec prepared himself, because the plan already sounds crazy.

"We send in someone – someone good, who won't fail – to assassinate him. The Texans can't know it was us." Miles looks back and forth between Bass and Alec, who appear to need some additional convincing. "Look: Blanchard is the problem. He's a jingoist. If we could get him out of the way, his second in command would be much more temperate."

Bass shifts in his chair. "And if we do this, how are we going to pacify Kelly? She's not too happy about our fleet being in her waters. In fact, she's lined up her tall ships to prepare for battle, while you've been sleeping, man."

Miles thinks on this, squinting. "We tell her the truth. Or at least _this_ truth: we're going to take care of Blanchard. At least she'll know we were never," Miles glares at Bass, "_consorting_ with Blanchard."

"Ooh. Big word. I still prefer cahoots, but to each his own." Bass bites his lip to keep it from curling out of its grimace into a smile.

While the two men engage in a scowling match (which Miles is taking far more seriously than Bass), Alec is thinking. It makes sense for _him_ to assassinate Blanchard. He's already near the Texas border, and time is of the essence. He's the only one here with the skills who isn't a top-ranking official of the Republic.

"Miles," Alec interrupts the death stares.

"What Alec. You don't like my plan?" Miles asks, affection creeping into his voice.

"No, sir," Alec returns formally, given the weightiness of what he's about to say. "I volunteer to kill General Blanchard."

"Absolutely not." Miles crosses his arms like the conversation is over. A veil drops over his dark eyes.

"Miles think about it. It's the only thing that makes sense. I'm already down here. I have proven myself at covert operations. The fewer people who know about this mission the better, and I already know."

Miles just shakes his head. "Nope. Stop talking, Alec. We're done."

Bass regards Miles's stony face and attempts, "Miles, you know he's right. Why fight it? This is what you've been training Alec to do. Give him a chance."

"Fuck off, Bass. Not your decision."

"Miles. You gave me your family's knife. You clearly trust me. Let me prove your trust is justified. The Republic has never needed me more than right now." Alec's body is crackling with electricity.

Miles shifts his eyes to meet Alec's lively blacks and swallows. "I'm not willing to lose you," he admits.

"And you won't lose me. I promise."

Miles scoffs, "You can't promise something like that."

"I can do this, Miles."

Miles regards miserably Alec for a spell. "I know," he answers simply. He looks briefly at Bass, who nods. "Ok, Alec. Ok." Miles thinks, _Fuck_. Because somehow he's just agreed to let Alec go. And that is that.

* * *

Several days later, Alec is gone, and Miles, Bass, and Nora sail back with the fleet. Kelly Foster has bidden them farewell, eagerly awaiting news of Blanchard's demise. She may not always support Monroe's and Matheson's barbaric methods, but in this case, one less tyrant on the map will do the whole world some good.

Currently, Miles is drinking whiskey with Bass and Nora in Bass's office, when a courier enters.

"Mr. President, sir. A message from President Foster."

Bass's stomach drops as his eyes glide over her familiar script.

_Dear Sebastian,_

_My spies have brought word of your man's Texas errand. It has failed. He delivered a glancing blow and was close enough to have his face identified as a Monroe Militia captain. I disavow all knowledge of this mission. Georgia Federation will stay neutral in any dispute between you and Texas. I'm sure you understand. Good luck, as this must be very unwelcome news for the Monroe Republic._

_Sincerely,_

_President Foster_

Bass glances up at Miles, who is smiling (a rarity) at Nora, as he pours her another whiskey.

"Miles, when is Alec expected home?"

"In a week and a half. Why?" Miles's smile fades at the disquiet on Bass's face. "What happened?"

"Alec failed. He nicked Blanchard and was identified by the Texan guard."

"What? No! How can he have…" Miles stumbles hopelessly over his words. Miles expected Alec to either prevail or come home in a body bag. But this?

Nora shivers. "So war with Texas is inevitable."

"No. No, it's not." Miles gets up and strides to the window, fidgeting with his uniform. "I need to get a message to Blanchard as quickly as possible."

"What will you say?" Bass asks, feeling rather as hopeless at the situation as Nora.

"The only thing I can say: that Alec went rogue. He's part of our inner circle; he knew about the impending hostilities with Texas, and he wanted to make himself into a hero. But he didn't have our sanction."

"Blanchard will never believe you, Miles."

"Then we'll make him."

Bass opens his hands: _How?_

Miles swallows so forcefully it's almost audible: "We'll hand over his assassin. Blanchard knows Alec is like a son to me."

Nora gasps. "Miles! You can't…"

"Can't I? Trade one person I lo-" Miles's voice breaks so he tries "care about" instead and makes it through. "Can't I trade one person I care about for the hundreds of thousands of people who depend on me? Don't talk to me about what I can and can't do, Nora."

Bass mulls it over and decides, "Miles is right, Nora. What else is there? We go to war with Texas and we lose everything we've built."

Miles stays his shaking hands and approaches Nora. "Do you want a leader who puts himself first or last?" Apparently, he's decided that if he can convince Nora he can convince himself. "Answer!" he bellows, and Nora jumps.

It's a very good question, Nora realizes, and she's rather amazed at his presence of mind given how upset he is. How do you distinguish a compassionate leader from a cold, calculating one? Is giving up one's only son for the good of the whole righteous or fundamentally corrupt? Then there is this problem: the particular leader in question is her boyfriend. How he treats the people he cares for has a profoundly personal impact on her. But she puts this secondary thought aside and says what she knows is right…or the thing Miles needs to hear, because he's already decided.

"I want a leader who puts himself last. But I'm…I'm not sure I could do it if it were me."

"That's why I'm in charge." Miles lifts his chin slightly. He pushes past her to make arrangements for Alec's undoing.


	11. Chapter 11

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

* * *

**The Past**

Bass was disappointed to find that by the time he'd come over to help Miles paint the porch, Rachel and Ben had left to do some local sightseeing.

"What could they possibly want to see in this shit-town, especially on Easter when everything's closed?" Bass had complained.

"Beats the hell out of me," Miles had agreed.

After a long day's work, they retire sweaty and exhausted to Bass's parents house for Easter supper. Ben and Rachel are already there, seated at the table (which is adorned typical Gail-style with bunny napkins and a plastic egg filled with chocolate at each place setting). Rachel looks taken aback by the tremendously enthusiastic greeting Bass's sisters give Miles.

Both girls squeal, and Angela booms, "Can I ride on your shoulders?" while Cynthia sort of retreats into herself, blushing and giggling.

Gail emerges from the kitchen and scolds, "Angela, you're far to big to ride on Miles's shoulders, and he's wounded, so let him be!" Gail pushes past her girls to kiss Miles on the cheek and give him a hearty embrace. "So lovely to see you, Miles. I've made three pies just for you! How's your knee, sweetheart?"

"It's fine, Gail. Thanks for asking."

Rachel feels a pang of shame, because rather than asking Miles if is he's been in pain, she's only berated him for serving in the Armed Forces in the first place. It suddenly dawns on her that Miles and Bass are both home because they are wounded – something very bad and probably very traumatic happened to them in combat.

"Angie, c'mere. You can still fit on my shoulders," Miles encourages, and Gail shakes her head. Miles also waves at Cynthia who buries her face in her hands, making hiccuping noises.

"Yay!" Angela screeches and flings herself like a baby seal into Miles's arms. She makes a _thud_ that temporarily throws Miles off balance, but he recovers like a champ.

Bass says to Ben and Rachel, "Oh don't mind Cynthia. She just has the biggest crush known to humankind on Miles. She'll be giggling in the corner for hours."

Cynthia shrieks in embarrassment and runs away.

"I presume you're Rachel?" Bass asks, extending his good hand.

"Yes. And you're Bass. Nice to meet you."

Bass can't explain what happens when Rachel places her warm, lively hand into his. He meets her blue eyes and the world spins off its axis. He is beginning to understand Miles's pathetic attempt to characterize Rachel last night. He's never seen a more heavenly creature. Bass pulls up a chair enthralled. He hasn't yet blinked.

"So what do you do, Rachel?"

"I'm a scientist," she says vaguely.

"Oh, I'm not as dumb as Miles -"

"Hey!" Miles objects from the other room where he's swinging Angela around like a pet monkey.

"- so you can be a little more specific," Bass finishes, grinning, ignoring Miles.

"I'm a nanotechnologist then," Rachel explains, smiling back. Her teeth are white as polished shells.

"Cool. You manipulate tiny pieces of matter, then? I like that quality in a woman. Oh don't get your panties in a bunch, Ben," Bass interrupts himself, sensing a shift in Ben's mood. "Miles and I will be back in Iraq and out of your hair soon enough. I won't be poaching your woman."

Ben just shakes his head. Bass never fails to irritate Ben with what Ben likes to describe as 'aggressive horniness.'

Bass offers, "You all want some beers?" He points at Ben and Rachel with his index and middle finger.

Before anyone can answer, Miles has chimed in from the other room, "Yes!"

Bass calls back, "Miles, I wasn't asking you. Your answer to booze is always yes. There's not enough six packs in the world to accommodate your needs." He smirks back at Ben, who is frowning. "Now, don't start, Ben. It's the Lord's day. The day for family love and bullshitting and drinking delicious beers."

Bass departs to retrieve the drinks, apparently assuming everyone wants one.

"What's wrong?" Rachel asks Ben quietly, regarding his sour expression.

"Miles. He's an alcoholic."

Rachel narrows her eyes in disbelief. "What? He's 21 years old! When did he have time to develop an alcohol addiction?"

"Well Rachel, not everyone is quite the law abiding citizen you are. He's been getting black-out drunk since he was a teenager."

"Jesus. That's…upsetting."

"Yep. And now you know why I'd rather not visit my family."

Rachel reproaches him with her eyebrows. "Like it or not, Miles is your responsibility. He's your baby brother." She cranes her neck to watch Miles float Angela to the ground like a paratrooper. "I had no idea he was so lost."

Miles comes in looking vaguely sweaty from rough-housing, while Angela runs off to comfort the mortified Cynthia. Rachel notices Miles wince almost imperceptibly as he sits down and props up his knee on a chair.

"Ben, get in here and pick out you and your girlfriend's beers! Don't know what you two like to drink," comes Bass's voice from the other room.

This leaves Miles and Rachel to sit in awkward silence – or rather, awkward for Miles, Rachel is transfixed by her beau's brother, pondering his many layers.

"So, Miles. What exactly happened to your knee?"

Miles lifts an eyebrow and purses his lips. "Humvee blew up. I hit the deck and came down on something."

"Scary?"

Miles snorts. "Well, what do you think? We lost a bunch of guys from my unit in that battle." His voice loses its intensity toward the end of the sentence, so that by its end Miles appears more lost in thought than present in reality.

"I'm sorry."

It takes Miles awhile to shift his brown eyes back to her earnest face. "What for?"

"For what I said to you yesterday. I don't understand your desire to be in the Marines. And I don't like war. I think the military hampers human justice…but most of all, I object that it hurts my family." She nods at his knee to signal that she is referring to him.

Miles slumps down onto his hand, his elbow propped up on the table. "I accept your apology," he says, rather than trying to explain to her that the military enables her precious democracy to function - that there would be no human justice without defense. He doesn't feel up to the task of sparring with her imposing brain. His knee is suddenly killing him, and he has an indescribable tangle of hurt in his chest. He's afraid his pain is telegraphed all over his face, and he doesn't want to show weakness to Rachel.

"Miles…can we be friends?" Rachel puts out her hand across the table.

He looks at her in confusion. After a moment he allows her to take his hand, and she squeezes it, refusing to let go.

"I know you and Ben went through a lot growing up. I hope the Marines helps you find your way in life."

Miles swallows, staring down at her porcelain fingers intertwined with his paint-smeared, calloused ones. "Well...that's why I enlisted."


	12. Chapter 12

**"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"**

_A/N: Since this is the last chapter, I'd like to take a moment to explain that the poem that gave this story its title and illuminating quote was written by Dylan Thomas about his father's death. Thanks to all of my readers and most especially those who have encouraged me with reviews. Miles Matheson Appreciation Week has been singularly productive in my fanfic!_

* * *

**CODA 1**

**The Past: 10 years later (two months before the Blackout)**

Miles and Bass are on base at Parris Island. Bass is lying on his cot absentmindedly leafing through a GQ magazine, and Miles is just staring at the wall. His ancient cellphone rings.

"Hey," Miles says shakily, because it's Ben, and the mere thought of Ben elicits a strangling gush of guilt (over sleeping with Ben's wife), pain (over a lifetime of estrangement), and hurt (over Ben's rejection of his life choices and, finally, of him).

"Miles. I just wanted to call you with some news. It's about Pop."

"What? Is he ok?" Miles hasn't heard from his father in nearly six years.

"Well, no, not really. I got a phone call a few days ago from a doctor in Florida looking for him. Apparently, he stopped coming in for his treatments."

"Treatments, Ben? I'm sorry. The connection's fuzzy." Miles gets up from bed and walks outside into the suffocating humidity. Bass's eyes have followed him.

Ben continues, "Apparently Pop moved to Florida because he had been diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. He didn't want us to know. He's been getting surgeries, chemo, radiation…all this time."

"What? Prostrate cancer?" Miles asks lamely.

"Because of some stupid sense of manliness or pride, he couldn't bring himself to tell us about it."

"Well, is he alive?"

"I think yes, but he seems to be giving up on trying to get better."

"Oh."

"Oh? You've got nothing else to say."

Ben is clearly irritated with Miles, but Miles doesn't know how to fix it.

"Thanks for calling," Miles says with finality.

"That's it, Miles? You're less than four hours away from Pop. I'm in Chicago. I've got two kids, one of whom is really sick, and a wife…"

The word _wife_ hurts both of them.

"I'm gonna go, Ben. Take care of yourself." Miles hangs up.

Bass is standing in the doorway. "So…all these ten years. Your dad was dying just like all the other Vietnam vets. He wanted to spare you guys." Bass's eyes are burning and blue in the South Carolina sun. He's lost his entire family to a drunk driver. He cannot separate Miles's story from his own trauma.

"Spare us…deprive us. What does it matter now anyway?" Miles shrugs, turning away from those piercing eyes. Miles is not even sure if he's allowed to feel pain over his own family's pathetic story, given the sucking void of agony Bass has become.

* * *

**CODA 2 **

**The Present: One and a half weeks later**

"So Alec comes home today," Bass says almost casually but with an underlying solicitude.

Miles nods.

"How are you going to tell him?"

"I'll…I'll just tell him. He's a soldier. A man. These are the consequences of his failure. It's not about his and my relationship. It's about the Republic."

"I'm so sorry, Miles."

Miles's bottom lip quivers, but he holds it together.

Bass continues, "This isn't the same, ok? It's not the same as what _he_ did to you."

Until Bass mentions it, Miles doesn't even realize that he's been thinking about Pop. But Bass is right. Bass reads Miles better than Miles reads himself.

"I never wanted to be a father. I don't know how. Never learned to do it right," Miles manages to get out.

"You _are_ doing it right, Miles. You're a father to the Republic first and foremost. And you don't have to face this alone." Bass squeezes Miles's arm and watches his friend fight tears for another solid minute.


End file.
